


Can't Get Enough

by shihadchick



Series: Finds A Way [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bisexuality, Brandon Saad Has a Type, F/M, M/M, Multi, background Nick Bjugstad/Kyle Rau, mentions of Brandon Saad/Vincent Trocheck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 89,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick Leddy's got a lot going on. He doesn't need teammates complicating his life, let alone this little genetic problem that means he wants to get his teeth into some of them in more ways than one. From high school to the NHL, this is going to take some figuring out.</p><p>Brandon's just trying to play the best hockey he can. It's not his fault if Nick Leddy is awfully distracting.</p><p>[Or: So what if Nick Leddy was secretly a vampire?]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to T and K for audiencing this, and more thanks than I can ever adequately express to [sociofemme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sociofemme) for taking on the task of betaing this monster. You're all marvellous human beings and I appreciate you deeply. All flaws ranging from Minnesotan weather and high school hockey game scores to my incurable addiction to semi-colons are in spite of their able assistance and tremendous efforts to help me. <3 Title is from the inestimable Supergroove.
> 
> I've taken some liberties with the pieces of this that felt too creepy to research; it's also a magic-and-vampires-are-real AU so there's obviously content along those lines too. 
> 
> There is some Blackhawks content in this story, although it is much less detailed. Patrick Kane is not a character in this story, nor is he mentioned.
> 
> I don't believe any common warnings would apply to this story, but if I have missed something you would prefer to have been warned for, or if you would like to ask about content before reading please feel free to either comment here or email me directly (this username at gmail.com will reach me).
> 
> As ever, please do not link this to anyone involved with people whose public personae inspired this story.

Nick's fourteen the first time he looks at another boy and thinks — with a specificity that surprises him at the time — about pressing his face into the curve of his neck, licking at his skin. It burns under his skin, makes his hands itch, makes him hungry in a way he struggles to define.

It's a pretty small step from there to start wondering; he's not dumb, he reads more than most of his teammates and he's seen enough TV, and okay, so. So maybe he's kind of gay. Maybe he does like boys like that, after all.

He hides that thought away for a little longer, pushes it to the back of his mind where he doesn't have to engage with it. It's hard enough playing hockey when he's still inches shorter than almost all of his teammates, he doesn't need to be different in a whole other way as well. He's interested enough in girls to blend in anyway, just as keen as every other guy he knows to look at them, although at least none of their friends on the girls lacrosse team have to punch _him_ and remind him their faces are "up here, dickface." He gets weirdly good at remembering who has their ears pierced and who doesn't, though.

That gets him through a couple months, most of the way through his first semester as a sophomore, racing to try and keep up now he's on the varsity squad. And then one day his mom's there early to pick him up after practice, and even though he's quick enough that none of his friends seem to notice anything weird, she apparently has mom radar enough to notice how when he lines Blake up on a soft hit into the glass and down onto his ass, just fooling around after practice, he gets a little distracted staring before Blake gets back on his skates, bitching him out cheerfully.

"Nick," she says carefully, when they're in the car heading home, and he can tell it's going to be something important, because she pauses, and then says, "I think we need to have a talk when we get home."

Nick can't think of any chores he's skipped lately or anything he's messed up at school, scanning his memory for any reason he should have a guilty conscience - he hasn't even picked on Tyler much lately, he's been too _busy_. He tries to tell himself it must be something good or probably something not even about him, but then she stops at the Caribou down the street from their place and gets herself coffee as well as a hot chocolate for him, and that's as good a sign as any that something's going down.

He dumps his hockey bag in the mud room and hangs up his gear to air out some, considers showering again but elects to just change into a cleaner shirt in case that helps his case, whatever he's done, and since putting it off never makes it any better, he heads straight back downstairs and sits at the kitchen table to ask, "So, uh, what is it, mom?"

Tyler's got the TV blaring in the den, his own practice over and done for the day a while before Nick's is, so they've got some privacy, or at least for as long as the episode of Teen Titans he's watching goes for.

"I thought we'd wait till your dad's home too," she says, and Nick feels his eyes widen.

"Mom," he protests, and apparently the faintly panicked tone there was obvious to her, too, because she sits down next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, hugging him tight.

"Okay," she says. "Nick, I think I saw— at the end of your practice, you were looking at Blake—" and Nick goes hot and then cold all over; this is the last conversation he wants to have with anyone, let alone his mom, he can't believe he's given this away, he'd thought he'd been so careful.

"Honey, we would have told you sooner but we thought it had skipped you and Tyler," and Nick stops panicking and stares at her, because what? "Your grandma did always say you looked a lot like her father," she sighs.

"What does my-" he stops to think through the relationship, "great grandfather have to do with me?"

"Well," she says, making a face that Nick can't read at the time but later realizes was probably fairly sheepish, especially since it becomes something they all laugh about a few short years later anyway, "He was a vampire."

Nick sits up straighter, and glares. This isn't funny. "Mom," he says, "It's not April Fools, come on."

"You wanna tell me you haven't thought about biting people sometimes?" she asks. "Maybe a pretty girl in your class?" and Nick blushes.

"I'm sorry, honey," she says, and she does mean it, too. Nick's never had an adult apologize to him like that before and he's not sure how he feels about it. It's _weird_. "We should have told you just in case. You haven't— you're not upset, or scared?"

He shakes his head, because neither of those descriptions is exactly right, and he's been mostly fine anyway.

They have an extremely awkward family meeting later that night, and talk some more, and Nick has to admit that, yes, he's been having some feelings lately that are kind of new, and also not quite the same as the stuff they talk about in health class. His parents dig out some books for him, and they look a few things up on the internet, too, and by the end of the week Nick's enrolled with a very discreet special abilities tutor to make sure that he can learn everything he needs to know about how puberty had an extra kick for him, and what he needs to do to keep himself and everyone else safe.

Vampirism is rare enough these days that Nick's never actually met anyone who he's known is a vampire before; his mom's dad had been dead before he or Tyler were born, and he's pretty sure that half the stuff they show on TV is about as accurate as Grey’s Anatomy is for, like, doctors.

It's still a pretty steep learning curve, though.

And now there's two things Nick can't tell his friends.

* * *

By the time Nick's a senior, he's hooked up with a couple of girls and a couple more guys, and he's pretty certain that yeah, he's into both. He still hasn't actually bitten anyone, although it's been close a few times. His adviser has been gently pressing him to at least try it, with an experienced donor in one of the all-ages clubs downtown; somewhere he can be safe and anonymous. Drinking blood — by itself or dehydrated as powder mixed into a smoothie, and Nick didn't even know that was a thing until it started finding its way into his family's grocery lists — had seemed weird for all of about a week; now that he's used to it it doesn't seem any more unusual than orange juice with pulp.

It takes him a little longer to realize some of the other benefits; he's always been pretty healthy and even as a smaller defenseman he doesn't tend to get hit a lot, but he gets through two full seasons of varsity hockey without missing a single game, and he never really seems to stay hurt or sick for very long. Tyler has the flu for almost two weeks, and first Nick's mom and then his dad pick it up as well, but despite the fact he's around them the whole time — and finished off Tyler's Gatorade in the fridge before any of them knew he was sick — Nick doesn't catch it at all.

"It's so unfair," Tyler whines, flat on his back in bed, curled around a pillow and sulkily watching some random Disney movie on Nick's laptop, which he is being a super awesome brother and loaning him. "You get all that vampire stuff and you never get sick."

As far as Nick's concerned, 'all that vampire stuff' is more annoying than it is anything else; it's just another thing he has to hide so people aren't weird about it, and sometimes he gets distracted when people smell really good. Although he gets less distracted than Mike does when there's a girl with a tight top and great rack sitting right on the glass, so Nick figures he's not doing too badly in comparison.

But Tyler phrasing it that way sparks off something in the back of his mind, and after he gets bored with watching Zac Efron angst about his future, he goes back to his room and digs into some of the older books he has. Nick's never had much ability with any kind of magic, and therefore he hasn't done any more training than he needs to keep himself and other people safe — he's not going to use his abilities on the ice so it's mostly not relevant, or at least that's how he hopes whatever teams he plays for will see it. He's not thinking any further ahead than college right now, but the possibility is there, just out of reach, if he can have another good season this year. He's determined he's going to.

He lets himself flop down onto his bed, lying on his stomach while he pages through one of the more in-depth books on vampires, the one he'd sort of skimmed through and then decided he didn't need to pay any more attention to. And that's where he finds it; a 19th century quotation pointing out that vampires were sometimes identified by the way they didn't catch plagues, or the speed with which they healed. And that some of the cleverer vampires in the times where it was still illegal — and even more feared than nowadays — would stop drinking blood for a while to enable themselves to look sick, or to heal at a normal human rate. It's pretty smart — CSI: Ye Olde Vampire Hunters, Nick thinks, and also pretty cool — rapid healing factor! Although mostly what that makes Nick think of is Wolverine. That's okay, though, Wolverine is pretty fucking cool.

He skips taking blood after his protein shakes for a couple of days just to find out what it's like, and he's a little cranky, and he feels a bit run down, but it's not actually _bad_ , and he doesn't get overwhelmed by any sudden urge to bite anyone he didn't already want to, so he figures if he needs to, he can do that too some day. He tweaks his ankle a bit at practice on the third day, and it's actually a surprise when he wakes up with it still bothering him the day after, so Nick figures that's enough experimenting; they've got a game on Saturday and he wants to be in good shape for it. They're playing Blaine, and he wants to see how much that Bjugstad kid has improved over the summer. Nick's not sure why he wasn't up with the national development team, he should've been.

* * *

They win against Blaine, although it's closer than it might've been; just one goal difference in the game, although they hang on to take it in regulation at least.

Nick keeps finding his eye drawn to Bjugstad, whenever he's on the ice; whenever they're on the ice together because they're matched up a lot. It's partly good — he can use that awareness, can find a shooting lane or a better pass out of the defensive zone — and it's also kind of bad, because he takes a pretty hard check from one of Blaine's dmen — a guy who's got easily four inches and thirty pounds on Nick — near the end of the second, too.

They're all teenage boys so there's a fair bit of chirping going on out on the ice, some of it loud enough to carry back to the benches or up into the stands, and some of it pitched low enough that the refs can't hear it either. There's only a couple guys on the Bengals with enough magic to be worth paying attention to, and they're mostly not wasting it this early in the season, plus the Eagles have a couple of strong sophomores with decent defensive magic. They're not all that great on offense, but they can at least stop anyone on the other side getting away with a sneaky tripping jinx. Mostly the refs overlook it unless someone tries anything blatant.

Plus, Eden Prairie has Kyle. Kyle, who's shorter than Nick, even, and has even less magical ability than he does, but enough attitude to make up for it. He cuts through a couple of the Bengals D on willpower alone, Nick figures, and considering the way one of them tries to get him in a headlock after he scores, Nick's pretty sure that he'd said some shit on the way.

Nick helps drag him out of the half-hearted pile of pushing and shoving that develops, and knocks gloves with him when they get back to the bench.

"Nice goal," Nick says, eyes already back on the play that's developing off the face-off.

He does look back quick enough to see Kyle turn to grin at him, before leaning over the boards to yell something at the second line.

Nick finds himself looking back at Kyle again — he normally manages to keep this urge to practices and after school only, but every now and then he'll have a game where he gets kind of stuck, and apparently that's happening again today. It'll be fine so long as no one notices. But then Bjugstad comes over the boards for Blaine, and Mike's skating hard to the bench yelling "D, D, D!" so Nick shoves it to the back of his mind to pull out later and tears after him to force a turnover.

* * *

Nick tries to lead by example, and he knows full well there are scouts at more games than there aren't, he wants to play his best and get the best out of all of his teammates as well. So that translates into a lot of time on the ice for practice, and in the gym, and back on whatever ice they can get access to when they're not officially practicing.

He spends a lot of time over at the Rau's that winter, when they're not stuck doing homework. Partly it's the backyard rink, which tends to attract a lot of the team whenever they've got time to get out there, plus a few other guys who live close enough even if they don't actually go to Eden Prairie. And partly it's because he has no sense of self preservation, or self-control. He tries to spend more time with Curt because it helps them out on the ice, since they're D partners more often than not, but no matter where he starts out he finds himself drifting over to Kyle pretty quick.

He doubts anyone would notice; Kyle and Curt spend most of their time together anyway, they're kind of a package deal that way.

That doesn't explain how he winds up squashed on a couch in the basement with Kyle practically in his lap, though. Dan had the new Call of Duty and had been raving about it to anyone who'd listen, and Nick wasn't actually all that interested in playing, but team bonding was important, so he was there, and- four hockey players really, really didn't fit on that couch.

Kyle looked like he was intent on watching Curt play his way through, head tilted, thigh warm where he was jammed right along Nick's side. Despite whatever was blowing up on the TV screen, Nick's eyes keep getting drawn back to the side of his throat; pale and unprotected, where he's usually wearing a scarf, and the thin slice of skin between his collar and neck that's usually covered by his jersey and hockey pads and the fact that Nick has other things he absolutely has to concentrate on. It turns out that's harder when they're indoors with central heating and computer games that Nick couldn't care less about.

He thinks he can see the faint throb of Kyle's pulse in his neck, and it makes him even hungrier, and as he swallows, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth he realizes with a thrill of horror that his teeth have changed, sharper than usual, the points insistent.

"Gotta pee," he mumbles, trying not to open his mouth much, and he heads blindly down the hall to the bathroom, walking just a shade too fast.

Nick locks the door behind himself and then stares at himself in the mirror for a long minute. You can't see the difference, not really, but he feels like it's written all over his face. Walking away hasn't actually made him want to bite Kyle any less, and trying to lecture himself about how inappropriate this is has also not had any notable success.

He prods at the point of his canines with his tongue and nearly cuts himself, which he hasn't done since the first time this happened. He'd thought he was getting better control; he's been right there beside guys who get cut with a stick that finds its way under a helmet — especially when they're fucking around on outdoor rinks rather than at practice wearing full cages — and he didn't even blink when one of the juniors picked up an awkward skate cut the other week, let alone get overwhelmed with a sudden urge to go _snack_ on someone.

He rubs his hand over his face, and then — conscious of the fact that someone will comment if he's gone too long — splashes some water over his cheeks, too. He's pale rather than blushing, at least, but that's about the only small mercy he has going for him.

Nick makes sure to move quietly when he walks back into the den, digs through his backpack to find the bottle he has stashed in there just in case, and drains that. He actually doesn't mind it at room temperature — the commercially available stuff is diluted in a weird way that apparently makes it last longer or something, he didn't actually bother finding out the science — and when he's done with the bottle he does at least manage to make his teeth go back to normal again. That was a little too close. Nick's not in any hurry to be out about any of his secrets, thanks.

He looks over at the couch to check if anyone seems to have missed him and this time he does flush — fresh blood rushing to his cheeks — when he sees Kyle watching him, instead of the TV.

"You and cranberry juice, huh?" Kyle says, with a grin, and Nick forces a laugh, says, "Yeah," and walks back over to the couch.

His back will probably not thank him for it later, but he sits down on the carpet in front of the couch and leans back against it, fitting himself between Kyle and Dan's shins. It's just- smarter than trying to fit back on the couch with the rest of them.

Even when he knows without turning to look that it's Kyle's hand that brushes lightly over the back of his neck, just for a fleeting moment.

* * *

December turns to January turns to February and they keep winning; Kyle's putting up points and so is Nick, and so are enough of the other guys on the team that they're not just a lock for the state championship tournament, they're starting to be talked about as favorites.

Nick sees scouts in the stands now almost every game, has to focus himself and be careful of his words, his actions, any time he talks to someone or has an interview with the local press.

They're talking about the draft seriously, now, and Nick and his mom buy plane tickets to Montreal, and they carefully look up to see where he can find blood locally. Just because it's legal now doesn't mean it's really something you can travel with. Not with airport security the way it is, anyway.

He's careful how he spends his time, careful not to be alone with Kyle if he can help it, spends a not-insignificant amount of time jerking off in his room with the door locked; Tyler is still prone to bursting in unannounced and Nick would rather avoid that embarrassing moment as long as possible.

Kyle's not the only person Nick has kind of developed a crush on; there's a couple girls at school, and, if he's very honest with himself, a few guys in the NHL who also feature in his fantasies from time to time; Nick doesn't have time to try and date or hook up right now, so what does it matter if he lets his taste stay varied? Kyle's just the one he's most careful around, for reasons he hasn't actually let himself think about too much.

Of course, that's just setting himself up to crash back to earth with a thud, because Nick's spent so much time being Kyle's friend and not at all ever letting himself look for more than half a breath — and that's why it's actually something of a shock when he walks around a corner from the locker rooms after they play Blaine again, and he goes face-first into Nick Bjugstad.

Or, rather, his face goes straight into Bjugstad's shoulder, because he's only 16 and he's well over six feet already.

Not that Nick's jealous.

Much.

"Oh, sorry," Nick says automatically, and then adds, "Good game."

"We'll beat you next time," Bjugstad says, and then flashes him a quick grin. Nick feels his stomach flip a little, and tries to keep his expression neutral.

Playing against Bjugstad is fun; he likes the challenge — likes it best when they keep winning, of course — but he knows he's been prone to getting caught watching sometimes, too. Nick can't see any way he doesn't go high in the draft next year himself, although he thinks Bjugstad's also going to be a Gopher first. Nick has maybe thought about playing with him just a little.

"Oh," Bjugstad says then, "I thought so."

Nick blinks at him, confused; he doesn't think he'd been silent for too long, and he's pretty sure he kept most of those thoughts off his face, too.

He stays confused for another couple of seconds, too, long enough for Bjugstad to look both ways down the corridor they're in, and then step closer, pushing Nick up against the wall.

"What-?" Nick starts to say, but then Bjugstad is leaning down and kissing him, and Nick's so shocked that he almost doesn't kiss back.

The operative word being, of course, almost.

He stretches up on his toes, wraps his arms around Bjugstad's neck, pulls him closer. It's a good kiss; hot and easy, with just the right amount of tongue. Nick should probably do something here, but instead he just wants to climb Bjugstad like a tree, wants to press right up against him and rub off. That thought's explicit enough to shock him just a little, enough to remind him they're in public so he pulls back, frowning a little.

"Okay, seriously, what-? I mean, I'm not complaining, but…"

Bjugstad shrugs, and Nick's eye gets caught again, greedily tracking the way his muscles shift, the way his skinny frame is starting to fill out now that he's — maybe — stopped growing _up_.

"Uh, I don't have a lot of magic?" Bjugstad starts. "But all it's good for is being able to tell when people are attracted to each other." He pauses for a second, and makes a face. "It's mostly a pain in the ass, honestly."

"Oh," Nick says, feeling a little dumb, and trying to quickly bury the vague panic about what else that might suggest Bjugy knows about him. And… other people.

"But I was pretty sure you wanted to do this," Bjugstad shrugs again, "And so did I, so."

"You kiss a lot of boys, then, Bjugstad?" Nick asks, trying to play it cool.

"Just the ones I like," he says, and then leans in to kiss Nick again.

It's just as nice the second time, and Nick's starting to dreamily consider dragging him off somewhere more private, or maybe groping him a little — at least they've both showered so no one smells terrible right now or anything — or maybe nuzzling at his neck just a little, just a taste—

And that's when Kyle walks around the corner, yelling, "Hey, Bjugy, where did you get t—?" right before he nearly recreates Nick's face-first meeting with Bjugstad in the first place.

He and Bjugstad aren’t smooth enough to be able to pretend this was anything other than what it actually was, and Kyle sees enough that it cuts his words off mid-sentence, his face going tightly upset for a split second, and then shuttering into controlled blankness almost immediately.

"Oh. Hey, Leds. We were going to head out for a post-game meal," Kyle says, too evenly. "You want to come with us?" He’s not looking at Bjugstad at all any more.

Bjugstad's dropped his hands — which had been on Nick's shoulders, thumbs digging pleasantly into the tight muscles — and is looking between the two of them, biting his lip.

"This is awkward," he says, very quietly. Nick's not sure he was meant to have heard it.

"See you later," Kyle says — to both of them, Nick thinks — and then he turns and he's gone.

Nick steps back, suddenly aware that he actually has a bit of a crick in his neck. "Uh, I should… go."

"Yeah," Bjugstad says, looking thoughtful, and not at all like the poised centerman Nick had been chasing all over the rink forty minutes ago.

Nick goes out with the rest of the team, and no one else seems to notice anything different; they're loud and over-excited, heady with the win. They pile into several tables, occasionally yelling back and forth, stuffing their faces with pizza. Curt is sitting across from Nick, just like normal, kicking his shin to punctuate a comment when Nick's slow to laugh, but Kyle's at another table entirely, instead of right next to Nick.

It's more disconcerting than he'd quite expected.

Everything seems like it's back to normal the next day; Nick spends an hour in the gym and Kyle nods at him from across the room, comes over to spot him and then trades off with him just like every other time they've done off-ice that year. Nick had been dreading having to talk to him — or having to explain — but apparently they're just going to pretend nothing happened.

Nick feels like he should find this more of a relief than it actually is.

* * *

Training picks up before the state champs, even more than it had done before, and Nick starts losing track of exactly what day it is; all he knows is how many days they have left. His life narrows even more to the house for breakfast before the sun comes up and frantic last-minute homework at the kitchen table, the gym, the ice, school, and then back on the ice.

They take an afternoon off to watch one of Blaine's last games. Nick calls it research, and it is, but doesn't mention that he knows they could've gone to see Edina play instead. If Kyle thinks anything of it, he doesn't say it where Nick can hear.

They'd taken a few cars to get to the rink, and Nick manages — not without a trace of guilt, admittedly — to vanish into the post-game crowd, texts both Dan and Curt to say he doesn't need a ride with them and lets them assume he's gone with someone else. He's played in this rink enough himself over the past three years to know who's in which locker room, and he finds his way back there, waiting just outside the door. None of the people walking past — who have considerably better reasons to be there, doubtless — say anything to him.

Bjugstad's one of the last guys out of the room, head turned back to say something to someone still inside as he pushes through the door, but his head turns unerringly right toward Nick a second later, almost like he'd half expected him there. Nick wonders if that's maybe part of his deal; if he'd noticed him in the stands earlier or something.

And that's enough to make his thoughts shudder to a halt, because what if Bjugstad's able to avoid him on the ice more because of whatever- sensitivity, whatever it is that he has. Nick must scowl at that thought or something, because Bjugstad comes right over and knocks their fists together, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder and knocking into Nick's hip, too.

"Wow, what got into you?" Bjugstad asks, fairly evenly considering the face Nick's pretty sure he was making.

Nick blinks a couple of times and then gets himself under better control. "Nah, nothing. Good game tonight, that was a nice goal you had."

"Was it?" Bjugstad says, with a bland smile that's hiding something behind it. Nick feels a trace of unease. He's not even sure what he's doing here, and however unfair it is he feels like Bjugy should be making this easier somehow.

"We would've stopped you," Nick says, partly just because he knows it's expected, partly because it's got a good chance of being true. It's not ego to know that they're good, this year they're _very_ good.

"Mm, maybe," Bjugstad says, not biting on that. Interesting. Nick doesn't tend to chirp a lot out on the ice, it's not his style, but now that he thinks about it he doesn't remember seeing Bjugstad lose his cool before, either. They don't play each other all that often, but Nick thinks he would've remembered. The few times they've both been over at the Rau's at the same time Nick remembers Bjugstad mostly in fragments; tall and serious, and very, very good.

He might have noticed the first part almost as much as the last.

Nick's not exactly picky; he likes a lot of people, but he's been learning over the last few years that he does have a type. Mostly.

Mostly, in that Bjugstad is almost exactly his type and Kyle— should not be.

There's a pause, then, where neither of them seems to have anything much to say, and Nick sneaks a look up at Bjugstad's face, and bites his lip, because this is strange, and awkward, and he doesn't know what to say. He's not even all that sure what he's doing here; this had been a spur of the moment decision. He'd hoped watching Bjugstad play without the distraction of being on the ice himself might help him figure some things out; all it had done was led him here to the changing rooms and what's probably going to turn into a fairly embarrassing mistake.

"The other week," Nick starts to say, trying to sound suave and grown up, just as Bjugstad starts to say, "So, did you want—"

"You first," Nick says, and Bjugstad looks like he's going to argue and then doesn't.

Instead, he looks around — they're pretty much the last people still there, the rest of the Bengals having filed out past them already — and Nick has just enough time to feel a surge of deja vu before Bjugstad steps closer and leans down to kiss him again.

It's better this time; they're not likely to get interrupted, at least, and it's also worse, because while most of Nick is enjoying this — some parts of him enjoying it very much — he's also not sure this was a smart choice.

Bjugstad pulls away after a minute, coughs and clears his throat.

Nick bites his lip. "This is a bad idea," he says, because if he's still not sure then that pretty much means that it is. He's not sure he could explain that logic to anyone else, but it feels right to him.

"Yeah," Bjugstad says slowly, and he's frowning a bit, more expression than Nick's seen him wear in a while. "It's- this should be better."

Nick nods, because they're clearly on the same page here. "Sorry?" he says.

Bjugstad shrugs, and then reaches over to punch his shoulder in a friendly way. "Nah," he says. "It wasn't bad. You should just, uh. Be kissing someone else." He goes faintly pink, and Nick feels, for the first time, actually older than him. They're usually on a more level footing. Not literally, of course, but in pretty much every other way.

"Mmm," Nick says noncommittally, not wanting to ask.

Or admit that he can probably guess.

They've got State champs in a week; Nick doesn't have time to make _any_ mistakes.

* * *

State arrives in a whirlwind; Nick doesn't think he's spent this much time at Xcel ever before in his life, and he's spent a pretty fucking solid chunk of time there before then.

Hill-Murray gives them a tougher game than they're quite expecting, and as they're about to go to OT Nick tries to ignore the sick sensation in his stomach that's telling him this could be it; his senior year and they're finally here and they could go out in the quarters.

They crowd around the bench after the buzzer at the end of regulation, and Nick grabs a Gatorade bottle, swallows a couple of times, and then tells himself to get it together.

Then he clears his throat, huddles up with his team in the locker room, and tells them pretty much the same thing. They can do this, they will do this, they're not going home without that title.

The buzzer starting off the OT period echoes in his ears as he watches Jack take the face-off, automatically moving to support the puck-carrier when they win the draw, and just like that, the moment of doubt washes away, and he's left with an absolute, bone deep certainty that they're going to win this.

They do, and Nick's right in the middle when the rest of the team pour off the bench to celebrate when they score, waiting just a heartbeat for the ref to signal a good goal before they're yelling and jumping on each other.

Inevitably, they draw Blaine in the semi-finals, and Nick looks across the red line at Nick Bjugstad for what will be the last time in his high school career, and thinks, again, "We've got this."

He nails Bjugstad on a solid open-ice hit in the second, the sort of thing that isn't usually a big part of his game, but sometimes you just get the perfect opportunity, and he's not going to not take it, not with the State title on the line. Bjugstad, infuriatingly, doesn't even lose control of the puck, but Nick manages to poke check it over to Kyle before Bjugstad can build up much speed again, at least.

They win 4-2, solid and just safe enough that they can hang back in the last few minutes, knuckled down on defense while the Bengals pull their goalie and try for a miracle. Once again, the Eagles pile victoriously onto the ice as the buzzer sounds, and Nick's hugging everyone within reach, thumping his teammates on the back and telling them how great they've done.

He doesn't spend much time looking at the guys on the Bengals, doesn't want to imagine being in that position. He tries not to notice Kyle talking to Bjugstad afterward, chin tilted up while he talks fast and low, gesturing with his hands. One hand lands on Bjugstad's upper arm and anchors there, while Bjugstad ducks his head to talk just as earnestly to Kyle, and Nick turns away, not exactly keen to see any more of whatever's going on there. He's friends with guys who play for Edina, and he doesn't think he'd talk to any of them like that.

Nick goes back to the locker room and shoves his pads into his hockey bag with more force than is remotely necessary. They won. They're going to the final. They're one game away.

He's just tired and kind of cranky, he tells himself. He should go find his parents in the crowd outside and grab one of the shakes he'd left with his mom, not really wanting to leave anything unusual in a strange locker room where anyone could find it and start asking questions. That's all he needs.

* * *

After struggling through the quarters, and then battling through the Bengals in the semi-final, finally playing Moorhead for the championship feels almost easier than it should.

They shut them out, and then it's all over bar the awards, and then the after-tournament party, at which point the team as a collective gets pretty much shit-faced. Nick has a couple of drinks, but they don't seem to affect him much; he's not sure if that's a vampire thing or just means he's taking it easy enough to not really feel them. He's not really in the mood to experiment more, so he just nurses the beer he'd snagged out of the kitchen earlier and watches his friends drink, and laugh, and try to pick up some of the girls who're around — or vanish off into darker corners with girlfriends if they've got them.

A few of the guys from other teams are there, too; the ones with friends who play for Eden Prairie, half of the Hornets, a bunch of guys that Nick mostly sees at pick-up hockey and out on the outdoor rinks over Christmas and New Years. It shouldn't surprise him to walk into the kitchen in search of another drink and see Bjugstad, leaning on the counter and talking intently to Kyle, gesturing with the can of pop in his hand.

Going back to the living room to talk to Lee and some of the other Edina boys about the draft is probably a better use of his time, anyway.

* * *

Montreal is kind of a blur, when he thinks about it afterward.

Nick remembers being drafted; hearing his name called — by the Wild, he's been drafted by _Minnesota_ — and going on stage to put the jersey on, and then a whirlwind of interviews and talking to team management; his mom hugging him and trying not to cry, talking to the other guys who'd gone in the first round, and trying not to be too much of an asshole to the ones who hadn't.

Palmieri grabs him back at the hotel that evening, says, "C'mon, we're going out," and 'we', it turns out, is most of the Americans, most of whom Nick at least knows on sight if not from playing them, plus half the OHL guys. Nick ends up talking to Duchene for a bit as they walk to some bar that Despres swears is a good time, before de Haan and Ellis swoop in to grab him and all the other dmen to do shots; someone makes a really dumb joke about shot blocking but Nick doesn't see who it was.

The bar is more laid back than Nick had been expecting given, well, Montreal, and it's packed with people. Someone over by the bar is doing some kind of low-level magic with cocktails — mostly setting them on fire, so far as Nick can see — and when he looks more carefully around the bar, he can see a horseshoe nailed above the doorway, and a few of the more discreet signs that signal this bar is magic friendly.

And LGBT friendly, too, given the rainbow stripe sticker on an angle right next to the horseshoe, not that Nick's exactly going to be looking for that when he's surrounded by half the guys in his draft class. As usual, the drinks aren't really doing much for him, but on his first trip back to the bar he runs into a cute girl — almost literally, and she only doesn't wind up wearing the drinks he's holding by virtue of how fast she stops moving. Her hand goes to his arm to steady him, not that he was actually going to drop anything; he's got better balance than that, but as he's looking at her — a couple inches shorter than he is, maybe 5'8, blue eyes, hair chopped short in a pixie cut, somewhere between blonde and light brown, solidly built and curvy in all the right places — her hand slips off his sleeve and onto the bare skin of his wrist, and- it's electric.

It's literally electric; they both pull back and stare as something sparks between them.

Belatedly, Nick notices the pendant hanging around her neck; a stylized wand crossed with some kind of tree. She's a witch, or at least a practitioner of some kind; most wannabes don't dare to wear anything that obvious if they don't have the talent to back it up.

"Don't worry," she says, grinning easily at him, just audible over the thumping music. "I'm a good witch."

"I'm Nick," he says. She's really cute. And hot. And, given the way she's still standing there, maybe interested. "I need to give my friends these," he gestures with the shots, "but I'll be right back?" She gives him an encouraging smile and cocks her hip, stepping over to lean against one of the pillars dotted around the room, eyes not leaving his. Yeah, that’s- that’s pretty much a yes.

He fights his way through the crowd over to the booth that they'd managed to grab, and puts all five of the drinks — the most he'd felt comfortable juggling, and even then that had been close — on the table without bothering to take one for himself.

"Hey, I'm gonna-" he starts to say, but Schroeds interrupts him, eyes focused somewhere over Nick's shoulder as he says, "Found someone better looking to talk to than us, huh?"

"Yeah," Nick says, taking the out. "Exactly," and he extricates himself from the group before anyone can say much more than that.

She's still waiting, over by the edge of the dance floor which is already filled with people, despite the fact it's actually not all that late yet.

"Hi," Nick says again, feeling kind of dumb about it. He doesn't exactly have, like, moves or anything, but he's usually a little smoother than this, at least. And since it can't be the drinks, it has to be the lingering tiredness from a crazy week, or the sheer overwhelming overload of the draft and everything.

"Want to dance?" she asks brightly, looking him up and down, almost as if she's trying to tell by eye whether he has any sense of rhythm whatsoever. Whatever she's doing, she seems to be happy enough with what she's looking for, because she steps closer — he rests his hands on her hips automatically — and gives him another grin. "I'm Kelly."

Nick takes a couple of steps back so that they're properly on the dance floor — and, almost as importantly, lets some more people block them from the view of anyone he knows who might be watching. He knows the whole point of going out tonight was to celebrate, and for most of the guys that's going to mean drinking, and maybe picking up if they can find a girl who'll have them; he'd like to do the same but that doesn't mean he really wants an audience.

Kelly moves easily with him, and she fits against him neatly, too; it's easy to let his hands move over her sides, smoothing down the sides of her dress. She hooks her arms around his neck and does a little hip shimmy that's not at all in tune with the beat, but does great things for him.

Maybe he should second-guess this, but Nick's eighteen, and he's going to play in the NHL, and a cute girl wants to dance with him tonight, so... fuck it. Nick hasn't exactly been to a lot of clubs; mostly the guys who have fakes at home use them to buy beer for house parties rather than bothering to try and sneak in anywhere they're more likely to get caught, so he doesn't know exactly what normal is, and maybe Montreal's different, anyway, but if this was a party back in Minneapolis- Nick catches Kelly's eyes; calm and blue and ever so faintly familiar, and leans in to kiss her. He moves slowly enough that she could duck away if she wanted, but instead she goes up on her toes to press her mouth to his, hot and sweet, giving back everything he's putting into this with interest.

They give up on even trying to dance pretty fast, but from what Nick had seen earlier they're by far and away not the only ones; there's people paired off all over the club, and as heated as Nick feels, the way they're making out is actually pretty tame in comparison to some of the other couples. He lets his hand drift lower, curving over her ass, and she bites his lip in response, letting her fingers tangle into the hair at the back of his neck. That- feels really good, and there's absolutely no chance she can't tell how turned on he is now.

They make out for another couple of songs, swaying together, and Kelly pulls his hair a little, which he hadn't thought he'd be into, but is actually just turning him on all the more. She's hot, and apparently interested, and Nick would like nothing more than to ask her to come back to his hotel room, to see just what that spark the first time they'd touched actually meant.

Of course, his hotel room is the one he's sharing with _his mom_ , so that is completely off the table.

As if she knows what he's thinking — which Nick is pretty sure isn't actually a thing anyone can do, not even witches, but, well, you hear rumors — she wriggles against him again, and shit, Nick wants to try that without any clothes in the way. She catches his lower lip between her teeth, letting the skin pull a little before she lets go, leaning away enough that they're not quite breathing each other in anymore, though she doesn't let go where her fingers are buried in his hair still.

"You want to get out of here?" She asks, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes," Nick says, unhesitatingly. "Uh, I'm sharing a hotel room…?"

"I have my own place," she says, and gives him a quick little grin, smug and confident, and that just turns him on even more. "It's about a five minute walk?"

"Sounds good to me," Nick says, and he lets go of her long enough for them to break apart.

She smooths down the skirt of her dress - Nick doesn't think he's rumpled it that badly, but she's clearly checking just in case, and he doesn't miss the quick glance she rakes over him in turn, clearly checking him out again, just as clearly still liking what she sees.

"Lead the way," he says, which is probably not all that smooth, but whatever. He offers his hand automatically, and she doesn't hesitate before taking it, using that as leverage to drag him through the crowd towards the door.

Kelly stops short just before they're about to work their way back out past the bouncers, and asks, "Oh, did you need to tell anyone…?"

"Nah," Nick says, "None of those guys would worry, we're good."

"Excellent," she says, and flashes him another one of those eerily familiar grins, and drags him outside onto the sidewalk and into the comparatively cooler air.

Nick wraps an arm around her as they walk; enjoying the way she moves, confident and warm beside him. Her place is as close as advertised, and Nick's pretty certain he'll be able to find his way back to the hotel eventually just fine, too. What she didn't mention was that her apartment was six stories up, and there's no elevator. Nick's in damn good shape, and he's just gone through all the fitness testing at the combine to prove it, but he's quietly relieved when she says, "It's this one," and steps onto the landing. She's not even breathing hard, Nick's impressed.

It's a little more awkward after she unlocks the door and he follows her in. He toes his shoes off by the door out of habit; she has a pile of shoes there too which makes him fairly certain that it was the right move, but that leaves him standing in a stranger's apartment in his socks and nice jeans, suddenly second-guessing himself.

"Nick?" She stops in the hall, looks back over her shoulder at him. "You okay there?"

"Yeah," he says, and takes a couple of quick steps to catch up to her. He's expecting her to keep walking, but instead she turns and moves into his space again, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck and press her mouth against his.

He kisses her back easily, eagerly, and lets his eyes close, hands moving to settle at her waist. The kiss is just as nice as it was back in the club, better now that he doesn't have to try and avoid other people, doesn't have to avoid the thump of loud bass and laughter and glass bottles on tables. It's easy to get lost in touching her, in the kiss, and he almost fancies he can feel her pulse beating, can feel it against his lips. She smells really, really good, and Nick could just about—

And that's when he realizes, when his instincts — the ones he's spent almost as much time training as he has his snapshot — kick in, because he's about two seconds away from his teeth lengthening. And given the way that they're kissing, well. She'd notice.

He pulls back in a hurry, knows his expression isn't hiding as much as he'd like, and tries frantically to come up with an excuse he can give her. He's not going to lose control and do anything, but it's probably better to just leave regardless.

"What?" Kelly asks, tilting her head to look at him. They hadn't bothered to hit the lights — Nick hadn't expected to be in the hall very long, honestly — so all that there is to see with is the ambient light for the streetlights outside, angling in through three or four narrow windows along the wall of her living room.

"Uh, I just need a moment," Nick says, mumbles really; he knows she won't see but he wants to keep his teeth covered anyway. And this is embarrassing, because now she's just going to think he was about to lose it just from making out with a pretty girl or something.

"Oh," she says, studying him for another couple of seconds. He's really not sure what she's looking for. "Sorry, I should've asked first. You want a bite?" She tilts her head a little more, and the light falls over the long line of her neck, the smooth plane of her collarbone, and Nick's mouth is fucking watering, and also, wait, what?

"Um, sorry?" he says. Her eyes are really, really blue.

She gives him a pixie-cute grin, flashing her teeth at him, and Nick feels that all over; he wants to bite her and get his hands on her in about equal measures. "I've been reliably informed I taste great," she adds, and why is _Nick_ the one who's blushing? She can't mean what he thinks she does.

"I'm sure you do," he says, which is not even close to smooth, but is hopefully going to buy him some time to get his head together a little better.

"Or we can go for the wrist if that's better for you," she says with a shrug, "I like both."

Nick thinks this must be what 'flabbergasted' actually feels like, because he's completely lost. He didn't say anything, can't figure out how he gave himself away. No one outside his family has ever guessed, and he's known her for less than an hour.

"I. Uh. How do you know?" he asks, can't help himself, even though that's kind of a dead giveaway that she's right about him.

She gives him another grin, and holy shit, she has dimples, Nick is such a sucker for that.

"I told you," she says. "I'm a very _good_ witch."

"Oh," he says dumbly, still staring. She invited him home with her, even though she knows he's a vampire, knows he- and she's _done this before_ apparently. "You really want to let me bite you?"

He's blunt, doesn't know any other way to ask this; and there's no confusion this way, either. His tutors have emphasized from the very first time he saw them that you never, ever take blood from anyone who doesn't willingly and knowingly consent. Nick just didn't figure he'd find someone who would unless he went looking.

"Are you kidding?" She asks. "Duh. I mean, no offense, but that pretty much guarantees you're gonna get me off, so: yeah."

Nick blinks, and his dick gives an even more interested twitch at that, because apparently he can be wildly confused and ridiculously turned on at the same time.

"I'd like to do that either way," he says carefully. "You really like it?"

She leans in, kisses him again, and lets one hand drift down to his belt, brushing her knuckles over the outline of his dick under the jeans, and he hisses in a breath, feels his hips jerk forward a fraction of an inch.

She's grinning when she pulls back to look at him again, and Nick's not real sure how much blood is making its way up to his head by this point.

"Yep, I dated a couple in college who both were," she says. "I am definitely really into that. I thought it was pretty common actually. Like, why else would people volunteer to let you, you know?"

Nick actually hadn't thought about that. He probably should have.

"I, uh. Haven't done that before," he confesses, because it seems like the time to do that.

"Ohh," she says slowly. "Uh, just the biting part, or-?"

Nick goes, if possible, even redder. "Just the biting part," he says, because, okay, he hasn't had a _lot_ of sex, but it's not like he doesn't know what he's doing there. Mostly, anyhow.

"Let's maybe stick with the wrist, then," she says, and curls her fingers around his, tugging him towards a doorway which he's guessing has to lead to her bedroom. Nick almost wants to pinch himself to check that this day is really happening.

Her bed is messy and unmade, pillows jumbled at the head, sheets rumpled and a couple of what look like hand-knit blankets on the end. She puts a hand out to flick the lights on, draws the curtain down over the one window in the room and then turns back to him.

"You want some help getting undressed?" she asks, and Nick can follow that instruction without any additional pointers, gets his belt undone and jeans shoved down to his ankles in record time.

She scrunches up the skirt of her dress, getting a good grip with each hand and just pulls it off over her head, flipping it right-side out again with a practiced shake before turning to hang it on the door of her closet. She's just wearing a bra and panties underneath, both dark, but not, Nick doesn't think, a matched set or anything all that fancy. It's a little hard to focus on that, since there's suddenly a whole lot more skin to look at, and Nick is really, really glad he doesn't have to do anything more complicated than pull a t-shirt over his head, because all he wants to do is stare. And touch.

Kelly sits down on the edge of her bed and raises an eyebrow at him. "You need an invitation?" She's teasing, not criticizing, a trace of laughter still audible in her voice.

"Okay, okay," he says. He's not sure about whether he should get any more naked yet, but he's going to let her dictate their speed. It seems wiser.

He walks over to the bed, steps closer and ducks down to kiss her again; at least he knows what he's doing there. Her bare shoulders are warm under his hands, and she runs her heel along the back of his calf, warm pressure that makes him think about her wrapping her legs around him, gets him hotter and hungrier.

She makes a little noise against his mouth and starts to lean back, pulling him with her, wriggling underneath his weight until they're both mostly on the bed. Nick's braced with one foot still on the floor, his other knee drawn up to cover her thigh; she feels amazing underneath him, all heat and movement.

He lets himself run a hand down her side, skin soft against his fingertips, and then draws it back up again, thumb hitting the underwire of her bra before he lets himself trace the line of fabric, thumb pressing lightly into her sternum. He stops kissing her for a few seconds, nuzzles at the side of her neck and then kisses down her chest. Her heartbeat kicks up a few beats at that; he's close enough he can feel the way the blood's moving under her skin, but something about knowing he's allowed to do this, is going to — because apparently he's made up his mind about this, he's absolutely going to — something about that makes it easier not to get distracted, lips moving lightly over her skin.

It seems like the right move after that to bring his hand up further, stroking over the fabric of her bra, teasing over her nipple as he licks at the upper slopes of her breast. She makes a greedy pleased noise, and gets her hand on the back of his neck, the other sliding over his lower back, reaching down to grab his ass. Nick's not surprised; if there's been any common theme in the few hookups he has managed, it's that being built for hockey apparently pays off in bed.

He shifts enough to reach her mouth again after a few minutes of that, leans back into the kiss — although, yeah, one hand is on her breast, still — and just focuses on that, letting her warmth and taste fill up his senses. His teeth are definitely out now, but she wasn't exaggerating before; she's definitely kissed someone with vampire teeth, and it's obvious pretty fast that she has a lot better idea what she's doing than he does. That's fine, Nick's a quick learner.

Kelly squirms more under him as they keep kissing, her hands clenching on his skin, in a way that would — if he didn't heal so fast — probably be leaving bruises. His dick is insistently pressing into the side of her hip, and he's only just keeping it together, more desperate with every second.

"Okay," she says against his mouth, and he pulls away to let her talk, letting himself pant against the side of her neck, feeling sweat spring out along his hairline, his skin feeling too tight, prickly, the sensation of phantom fingers trailing along the curve of his spine. "Be careful," she says, and her breath is coming fast, too; she's so turned on, Nick can feel it all over in the way she's giving off so much warmth and shuddering, tries not to think about the occasional little heat-lightning sparks between them where they're touching bare skin on skin. "Just take a couple mouthfuls," she adds, sounding calmer than Nick can quite understand, and then she's offering him her wrist, palm turned up, the vein faintly blue.

He shifts his weight so he's not lying on her so heavily, takes one last breath to try and settle his own nerves, and then he fastens his mouth on her wrist, letting his instincts take over.

The first split-second is an almost overwhelming with shocked disbelief more than anything else; Nick's known this is part of his life for almost four years now, he thought he was used to it, but there's something about the sensation of his teeth sinking into someone else's skin that throws him for a moment, wholly unlike anything else he's ever felt.

It's absolutely nothing like eating; Nick will tear through a steak like any other meat-eating human, and he plays hockey; he spends half his life trying to get enough protein. This feels nothing like drinking the pre-packaged blood he's used to, either; there's something vivid and vital in the rush of hot blood that fills his mouth, it's almost intoxicating, and he swallows hard, takes a second longer to absolutely revel in the feeling before he lets go, licking carefully over the puncture wounds, feeling them start to heal up underneath his tongue— and that's weird, that is definitely a weird sensation — but Nick's too turned on and euphoric from finally doing this, from how _good_ it is to really focus on that.

And, after he gets enough functioning braincells going again to notice anything outside himself — not the most considerate he's been when trying to get laid, but under the circumstances she'll probably forgive him — he can tell that Kelly is also enjoying this, just like she'd said. Her eyes are wide, pupils huge and dark, hips shifting restlessly underneath him.

"Fuck," he breathes, and lifts himself up on his elbows to get a better look at her, balances enough that he can get one hand free, and without stopping to second-guess himself he lets his palm curve over her stomach, toward the top of her underwear, and stops there long enough to ask, "Hey, can I—?" He doesn't even get to the end of the sentence inside his head before she's nodding frantically, saying, " _Yes_ , please, fuck." Nick slips his hand under the fabric, and he's barely even rubbed his thumb over her before she's arching up underneath him and coming hard.

This is, hands down, the hottest thing that has ever happened in Nick's _life_.

So, naturally, he bites his own lip, croaks out a "Holy fuck," and loses it before he's even taken his own underwear off. Not his most impressive moment.

"…sorry," he says, once he's regained the power of conscious speech, flat on the bed, half on, half beside her. That really could've gone better.

Kelly reaches over and gets her fingers into his hair, messing it up even more than it already was. "That was a lot, huh?"

"Yeah," he says, and trails off, because he has no idea what to do or say now. Hell, neither of them even got all the way naked; this is maybe also the weirdest sex Nick has ever had.

"You wanna try that last part again in a few minutes?" she asks, and runs her hand down his back to toy with the elastic of his briefs, hinting obviously at what exactly she means by that.

"Fuck, yes," Nick says, and hey, his dick is already reporting back regarding that suggestion. "Just give me five minutes."

"Awesome," Kelly says, and then she braces herself and somehow gets the leverage to roll them over so she's on top and Nick's sinking into the mattress.

He raises an eyebrow this time.

"Hey, I wasn't complaining," she adds, and he just says, "Okay, cool," and gets his hands back on her tits. Admittedly, that's a lot easier from this angle.

She leans in to kiss him again, and Nick can definitely roll with this. He hooks his fingertips into the fabric of her bra, tugging the cup down so he can get at more skin, drags his thumbnail lightly across the nipple. The last girl he hooked up with had really liked that, and Kelly seems to be pretty into it as well if the way she makes a tiny noise against his mouth is any indication. He keeps touching her, enjoying the solid weight of her over his chest and lower body, although now he's wondering if he can get her to shift up so he can get his mouth on her tits too. He's pretty sure whenever he gets his briefs off he's only going to last about five minutes if he's lucky, so this is definitely the time for it if they're going to do anything else first.

Nick breaks the kiss, relaxing enough that he's flat on his back, looking up at her. He opens his mouth to ask, but she beats him to the punch, says, "Uh, you remember you can just undo my bra, right?"

Or maybe Nick's going to spend the entire night bright red and too turned on to think straight. "Right," he says, and hopes he's redeeming himself a little by not fumbling when he gets his fingers on the clasp.

Kelly sits up enough to shrug the straps down over her shoulders, drops it onto the floor beside the bed without really looking, and leans right back down again to kiss him again. Nick gets his hands back on her skin as fast as he can, starting on her sides and sweeping his hands up to touch her breasts again, then tracing the undersides with his thumbs, letting his fingertips follow the marks on her skin from the band. He lets one hand keep going around her side, just under her arm, and she muffles a shriek into his mouth, jerking away for a second, clearly ticklish. He flattens his palm over her shoulder blade in apology, and then runs it down her back, his other hand still cupping her breast, feeling her chest move with every fast, shallow breath she takes.

The hand Nick's stroking down her back lands on her ass a few seconds later, encouraging her to grind down onto him, and okay, yeah, he's definitely good to go again.

…which reminds him that he's made a fairly large tactical error there.

He gives her one more quick kiss, and god, he doesn't _need_ to bite her again, still kind of floating on the sensation, but the echoes of that desire are still making him slow and hyper-focused; wholly greedy for everything he can have with her.

"Hey," he says when he finally manages to pull away again. "Can you move for a sec, I need to get, uh. I've got condoms?"

"Awesome," she says again, and rolls off him. Nick's too turned on to even register a chill as she moves away. He gets distracted for another long moment when she scrambles to her feet and shoves her panties down and steps out of them; he's kind of hypnotized by the way she moves. He gets his own act together pretty quick after that, though; stands up beside the bed and strips out of his own briefs — and, without stopping to think about it too hard, does his best to clean himself up with them, they're a lost cause already, so hey — before crouching down to pick up his jeans and dig through the pockets.

It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for, and by the time he turns to clamber back onto the bed she's lying on her back in the exact middle of the bed, her attention split between watching him and watching the tiny glimmers of light which are spiraling over the bed, drifting up to the ceiling before they vanish. He notices belatedly that the spiral is echoing — being directed by? — the way she's twirling her fingers, arms crossed above her head, rotating her wrists slowly like she's stretching them out. It's the most explicitly magical thing Nick's seen in a while, the soft red glow reflecting off the painted ceiling and on her body.

"Pretty," he says, stretching out next to her, but not quite touching, not yet.

"Thank you," she says promptly, giving him a smug grin. "Want to see if you can get them to change color?"

Nick blinks. She has to be messing with him. "It's like a… mood ring?" he asks, dubious. He remembers the girls in elementary school going through a craze where they were all nuts for the things, some weird material that changed color depending on, he was pretty sure, temperature.

Well. God knows, she  _is_ hot.

"Get me off again and find out," she says, grinning invitingly, and Nick doesn't need to be asked that twice.

He was possibly flattering himself in thinking he wasn't going to last more than five minutes; they get the condom on and he only curses a little as her fingers tangle with his, her touch feather-light on the thin skin of his dick. He checks she doesn't need anything else, touches her gently and leans in to kiss her quick one more time before sliding inside her.

Not even close to five minutes, it turns out, but he recovers fast — always does, though he's not sure if that's a vampire thing or an eighteen year old guy thing — and so he kisses his way down her body, takes a quick detour over her tits and lets his teeth scrape over her skin just the tiniest bit, teasing, and she gasps, squirms, and if he had a different objective right now then maybe he'd take her up on that wordless encouragement.

Instead, he keeps shuffling down the bed, mouths over her stomach, wriggles until he's settled between her legs, rubbing his cheek against the inside of her thigh so that she hisses, swearing reflexively before adding, "Come on, some time this century, _please_ , Nick."

That's about as much teasing as he can manage, frankly, and he gets his mouth right on her cunt, thumbs stroking over soft skin and hair. He finds her clit with his thumb a split-second before he gets his mouth on it, licking firmly, trying to take his cues from her gasps and quiet moans. It doesn't seem to take much longer at all until she's shuddering underneath him, thighs and stomach muscles tensing, rocking up into his weight, hot and wet under his mouth, and he softens his touch, letting her ride it out, knees tight against his shoulders.

Kelly starts to relax at last, and Nick can't resist the urge to touch one more time, licks gently over her clit and she shudders again, hard enough that he can't tell if it's an aftershock or if she's come again; whichever, it's still ridiculously hot. He disentangles himself then and flops onto his back, suddenly aware of just how tired and gross he is, sweaty and sticky pretty much all over. He blinks a couple of times and then his eyes focus, just in time to see the last few sparks of light above them flaring from orange to blue-white before flickering out.

"Huh," he says. That was pretty cool.

"Hrm," Kelly says, in a tone he can't read, and when he cranes his neck to look up at her she shrugs and adds, "That was a new one."

"Oh," he says, and doesn't really know what else to say there.

They lie there in companionable silence for a little longer, and then Nick reminds himself that, actually, he really does need to get back to his hotel room before it's unconscionably late. Kelly points him at her shower, and finds him a towel, a dark red with bleach stains that's scratchier than it looks, but is more than sufficient for him to dry himself off before he gets his pants and shirt back on, stuffing his briefs into the pocket.

"This was really great," he says, when she walks him back to the door, just wearing — of all things — an over-sized Alouettes shirt. It seems somewhat inadequate when put into those words, but he means it sincerely.

"You too," she says, and goes up on her toes to kiss him again. That still feels really good, and Nick startles at the moment of static shock when his fingertips move to graze over her jaw line. "And hey, if you find yourself out this way again," she shrugs, "Feel free to give me a call."

"I'd like that," Nick says, and digs out his phone — it's not connected right now, other than for the five minutes he'd taken to call his grandparents right after the draft; roaming charges in Canada _suck_ — but he's been using it instead of a watch, so it's right there in his pocket for him to hand to her, letting her punch in her number and check it before she hits 'save'.

"Thank you," he says once more time, steals one more kiss, and then lets her close the door behind him as he leaves.

He barely notices the six flights of stairs on the way back down.

* * *

College is less of a shock to the system than it could've been; Nick's been a decent student the whole way through high school, so he keeps his grades up without too much struggle. Adjusting to the Gophers is harder; college hockey is a definite step up from high school, and not just because he's once again playing with guys who've got a couple inches and a lot of pounds on him. He's been told he's still growing, will probably hit six feet before he hits the NHL; he's not sure if that's a threat or a promise. But more than anything else, it's a shock to the system to go from being a big fish in a fairly small pond to just another rookie. He's not proud of the fact it grates a little at first, but he steps hard on that feeling, determined to shake it off. He's adjusting pretty fast anyway, even if he's not putting up points like he had done last year. The coaches are happy with him so far, at least.

He tries not to think too often about how much better it'll be when he knows more of the team better, when Bjugstad gets there, next year; Kyle the year after. Not that he's focusing on that all that much, but it's in the back of his mind, and every time he goes home — every drop-in game at the local rink and every game of shinny out on the closest pond where he sees them or the guys he's used to playing from AA — he can tell that they're thinking about it, too.

They don't see each other all that much, though; Nick's busy with college, studying and hitting the gym and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life. His roommate tries to get him to double-date with him and his girlfriend; Nick gives that a shot precisely once and it's so painfully awkward that he and Zach agree to never try that again, without making eye contact once.

Nick meets a few guys he wouldn't mind kissing, doesn't make a move because rumors spread around campus too easily, even if he is discreet, and he just doesn't feel up to dealing with that right now, not when he's still finding his feet.

He's careful not to notice that he still sort of has a type.

It's easier to focus on the girls who are interested, and it's not like it's any hardship for him to pick up curvy blonde after curvy blonde.

* * *

In February, Nick's rights get traded to the Blackhawks. It stings at first — he's a Minnesota boy, he was drafted by them, supposed to stay there — but he's busy with college and not thinking much outside that for this year, at least.

In March, he starts dating Taylor, who plays for the women's lacrosse team, and who is just as into Nick as he is into her. They hook up a lot, and it doesn't take long for Nick to first want to tell her, and then actually tell her about the whole vampire thing. She's still more interested in other things he can do with his mouth, but she enjoys herself almost as much as Nick does on the semi-regular occasions where they add some slightly-more R-rated necking into the bedroom. She's the first person who asks Nick to bite her anywhere other than a wrist, and there's something about it that makes it all the more intimate. It's more dangerous, maybe, or maybe it's just being able to feel her body move under his when he lets himself bite down. Maybe it's being able to feel her breath against his scalp, ruffling through his hair, panting just a little too fast, breath sobbing in as he swallows and then licks warmly over her skin to heal it up. Maybe it's how fast they both get off when he fucks her afterward, loud and messy and so hot Nick's almost surprised not to see scorch marks.

Zach grumbles about Nick sexiling him for almost a week straight, but he just broke up with his girlfriend, so he's probably just jealous, too.

In May Nick decides he's most likely not coming back for his sophomore year; the Hawks want him in Rockford next season and he's ready to go. Taylor takes it pretty well, actually; neither of them is ready to try to stick it out long distance.

In June the Hawks win the Cup and Nick thinks, hey, this isn't so bad after all.

Nick starts out the year in Chicago, gets six games — and his first NHL goal — and then gets sent down to the AHL. It's not a big deal, not really; he was expecting it, even, because almost every defenseman spends time in the A. Half the current Hawks D had spent several years in the AHL first, although admittedly there'd been a lockout in the middle of that. Still, though. He and Morin make the World Juniors team and spend New Years in Buffalo, and manage to scrape a bronze at least. It doesn't make having gone down 4-1 to Canada feel any better, but Nick has to admit he's not exactly all that upset when Russia stages a comeback to beat them in the final.

They all get drunk after the bronze medal game — everyone but Nick, of course — but he's high enough on the experience to go along with the rest of them, laughing and giddy and happy that at least they medaled, at least they didn't finish the tournament on a loss. Only gold would feel better.

Morin slopes off to another room with Faulk and some of the other NTDP guys fairly early on, and Nick considers heading back to his own room, but he's enjoying spending these last couple hours with the team before they all split off again to their respective pro teams. It's going to be the last time most of them play together at any level, except maybe Worlds or the Olympics for the guys who do actually make it in the show. Which is likely to be half of them, if that. Nick's seen the breakdowns.

He gets caught up in conversation with a couple of the other Minnesota guys, giving Nelson shit for how he can't hold his booze any better at 19 than he could in high school. And then Nick looks over and there's Bjugstad again, grinning easily at him. He'd been nervous at first to play with him for the first time, worried it might be weird, but it had been surprisingly okay. They'd clicked well enough on the ice, too; it reminded Nick why he'd been excited to play with him in the first place, and he's tearing it up with the Gophers this year, Nick's happy for him.

He says as much and Bjugstad gives him another easy smile, listing into him, and he might not be the most solid guy, but he's put on a few pounds since high school, and 6'6 of anyone is not an inconsiderable amount. Nick nudges him with his hip over to the closest bed and drops him down there. Bjugstad gets his hand around Nick's wrist, curiously insistent, and Nick mentally shrugs and goes with it, sitting beside him.

"Working out with us this summer again?" Bjugstad asks, almost solemnly, like it's important.

"Yeah," Nick says, without needing to think about it too hard. They've shared conditioning and shooting coaches before; there's enough of them living close over summer that it just makes sense. He'll be aiming to stay in the NHL, and, if he's any judge, Bjugstad will be looking to make the jump. Kyle might be on his own at Minnesota sooner than he's expecting, Nick thinks, and carefully doesn't examine how he feels about that.

Or why he cares.

"Cool," Bjugstad says, and he rolls over, kisses Nick fast and careful — nothing that's going to get them in trouble, really; Kreider had slipped Jacky more tongue right after the game and as far as Nick knows he's straight — and smiles at him some more. "We should play some more three-on-three. With Kyle."

Nick's sober, but he can't be understanding what Bjugstad's implying correctly. "Sure, buddy," Nick says, and pats Bjugstad's knee — which is about as far as he can reach anyway. Nick lets himself just lean back into the pillows and relax, half-listening to the conversations going on around them in the room. When he looks over again a few minutes later Bjugstad's fast asleep, mouth open and snoring.

Because Nick is a good Minnesota boy who looks out for his teammates, he doesn't let anyone throw marshmallows — and jesus, where had those come from? — into his mouth.

He's expecting to go back to Rockford right after Worlds; he's starting to find his feet, starting to get used to the city and his new teammates, and then of course the Hawks call him up again.

They're right up against the cap, the after-effects of the Cup win and bonuses and trades and balancing right on the very edge, and it turns out that what that means for Nick is he gets to spend the first two months of 2011 shuttling back and forth between Rockford and Chicago. If Nick never has to drive on I90 again it's gonna be too soon; and he's pretty sure he's going to be seeing Belvidere Oasis in his dreams for the rest of his life.

The end of the year is tough, although Nick's still having to stop and pinch himself sometimes, barely 19 and he's playing in the NHL. They only scrape into the playoffs at the last possible minute, their fate in the hands of the rest of the league. Thankfully, the Stars manage to fumble even worse than the Hawks had done, and so less than a week later Nick's 19 and playing in the NHL post-season.

He's had better playoff experiences.

Going down 3-0 to the Canucks is terrible. Clawing their way back to a game 7 only to lose in overtime is one of the worst feelings Nick can ever remember having.

The time-honored method of dealing with playoff losses is to get thoroughly wasted, but that's not really an option for Nick. He could empty the mini bar in his room, or every room on their floor, and all he'd get out of it would be a full bladder. He fakes tipsy long enough to get through the team bonding part — guys get uncomfortable sometimes if you're too obviously sober and they don't know why — and then makes his escape. They're in Vancouver for the night, at least, no point in rushing the charter back home just to clean out their lockers.

Nick's wearing nice jeans, a relatively nice button-down and a ball-cap; he's a rookie and he hasn't made any kind of splash in the playoffs, so he's about as anonymous as he can be.

He finds a bar with the right stickers by the door, goes in, enjoying the fact that, for once, he's actually legally allowed to be there, and orders a drink.

It takes less than five minutes for him to make eye contact with someone he likes the look of, and — when they bring him a second drink, with a smile that's close to a leer, and a familiar hand landing high on his thigh as they take the seat beside his — to decide he likes them well enough to find out what they taste like, too.

Nick's never actually hooked up in a club before, but there's a first time for everything, it turns out, and apparently he's not so straight-laced that he can't drop to his knees and give a cute guy a blowjob in the bathroom of some random Vancouver gay bar. It gets his mind off that last shift for a whole five minutes. Ten, after he apologetically flashes a grin — with a lot of teeth — and asks, "Hey, so would you be into it if I—?"

Call-me-Ryan just about falls over himself to say yes. Nick's not sure why it took him so long to start doing this if so many people are this into it. This is what he gets for being busy playing hockey instead of going out clubbing, probably.

Nick goes back to Chicago in May with a couple of rapidly fading hickeys, and one or two good memories tucked in around the frustrating haze of losing. He's looking forward to doing better next season, getting to settle in Chicago properly, maybe.

In June, Nick's back in Minnesota, starting to think about training for next season, but mostly spending as much time as he can with family and friends, getting in gym time with the boys and resolutely not noticing how every time he sees Kyle and Curt, Bjugstad's right there too, giving him looks that Nick still can't entirely decipher.

Later in June, on day 2 at the Xcel Energy Center, the Blackhawks draft Brandon Saad of the Saginaw Spirit.

Nick's interested enough to note the tall kid who's inexplicably dropped back into the second round, and who might eventually be on his team, but mostly he's waiting to see as Kyle goes 91st, to the Panthers with Bjugy.

2011's kind of a big year for everyone, it turns out.

* * *

Nick walks in on Kyle kissing Bjugs three times.

One time they see him, and break apart with sheepish grins; Kyle's has an edge of antagonism, that 'I dare you just try me' edge he's played with ever since he made the Varsity team, ever since Nick's known him, and he just says, "race you to the other end" and takes off down the rink to the empty crate they've been using as a makeshift goal. Plus, a smaller shooting area is good for their accuracy, or something. And they've been too lazy to drag the real goal out every time, which is sort of more the point. Nick just exchanges a 'whaddaya gonna do?' shrug with Bjugy, and they both take off after him, and don't talk about it.

The time before that, he'd managed to back out of the room before they'd seen him, lets the basement door close almost soundlessly behind him as he goes upstairs again, and then comes back down with a deliberately heavy tread, letting his hip knock into the door at the bottom of the stairs before he shoves it open, and this time they're sitting side by side on the couch, staring fixedly at whatever action movie is playing on the Rau's cable channels. Nick tries not to notice how both of them are faintly pink in the face.

The last time is right before Kyle's due to head out to Miami for rookie camp; they've spent the morning working out, dry land training first and then edge work with one of the specialist trainers. Nick's ready to drop, or at least ready for a nap, and really wishing he'd remembered to grab different shoes. The idea of having to lace up his sneakers again just seems like cruel and unusual punishment after that last set of reps, but his flip-flops are still by the back door of his house — which is why he hadn't remembered to grab them first thing that morning — and it feels like it has to be close to a hundred degrees outside now. If that didn't mean he'd also be in danger of burning himself on the asphalt he'd consider walking back to his car barefoot.

Bjugs throws a ball of stick tape at his head, and Nick looks up; he'd been lost in thought and missed whatever he'd said. "Huh?" he asks, and hopes he's not making as dumb a face as he suspects he is.

"It's hot as balls out there," Kyle says, patiently — too patiently, like he's repeating himself and only just refraining from adding an eye-roll, "Want to come swim?"

Nick groans appreciatively at the sheer idea; fuck, that sounds perfect, the Rau's pool is huge and shaded and he'd kind of forgotten it existed since they somehow haven't spent half the summer in it this year. It's been, weirdly, one of the things that makes him feel like he really is more of an adult now than when he was first drafted; spending most of his summer training, even if he's still been having fun and going out with friends, slacking off on occasion. "Yes," he says, as if there was any doubt. "I just gotta go home to grab my trunks first?"

Kyle's faintly pink in the face when Nick looks over at him then, and Nick's not sure why. Maybe he hasn't cooled off enough after their workout either. Nick had run his shower on cold both for muscle recovery and to prolong the amount of time before he started sweating again, maybe Kyle had forgotten to. But then he glances over and Bjugs is wearing that weird expression on his face again that makes Nick think — yet again — of that one, quick kiss in Buffalo.

"You could probably borrow something," Kyle says logically. "We could give you a ride that way."

"Yeah, like either of you wear the same size as me," Nick says, skeptical, and they give identical eye rolls at that, but he's not wrong. Kyle's working out every hour of the day, just about, but he's still barely 5'9 and there's only so much muscle his frame will hold, while Nick stands next to Bjugs and feels like, well, like Kyle must next to him. They're basically a walking sight gag.

"I'll meet you there in twenty?" Nick suggests, and they exchange another look. Kyle's the one who just says, "Sure, see ya," and grabs his bag, heading for the door. Bjugs is right behind him, and by the time Nick's thrown the rest of his gear into his hockey bag they're getting into Bjugs' car and heading out. Now that Nick thinks about it, he doesn't think he's seen them not arrive together even once in the last couple weeks.

He grabs a sandwich and a drink from the fridge when he gets back to his parents' place, and bolts the sandwich while he's digging through his closet looking for his trunks. He's probably getting crumbs everywhere but whatever, he can clean up later. His mom's been firm on him and Tyler both cleaning their own rooms since they were in middle school, and not even playing in the NHL now is gonna get him out of that. It takes a few minutes for him to find his trunks, stuffed under a pile of ragged t-shirts from various hockey camps that he mostly keeps for hiking or anything that's likely to totally destroy whatever he's wearing. He hasn't actually swum much this summer, which feels odd after years of spending every free minute he wasn't training in the lake or at a friends' house. At Kyle's, even, pretty often.

Nick stops in the kitchen again before heading back out, mixes a second smoothie, and, after hesitating for a moment, dumps some of the dehydrated blood-substitute in with it as well. A good workout always makes him tired and hungrier — in that way that just hums along his bones, like an itch he can't scratch, even if he doesn't strictly _need_ to. And training with Kyle and Bjugy is just making that worse, even if he doesn't want to necessarily think about it in that way. If he's spending the afternoon with them, he may as well be as fortified as possible first.

He parks on the street and heads straight around the back, towel and a bag of clothes in hand. He'd considered changing when he got there, but given the number of guys Nick's seen get dumped in the pool fully clothed, he'd rather not take his chances. It's too hot to want to even put a shirt on, so he just hadn't bothered with that, either. It pays off, because he's barely managed to toss the duffel bag of dry clothes towards a deck chair when Nick and Kyle — both already dripping wet, and pretty clearly lurking in wait — tackle him. He makes a vague effort at struggling, but they're both slippery with sunscreen and water, and Nick's a little hesitant about where he's comfortable grabbing them, which he wouldn't be with anyone else, and he has to stop _doing_ that. More than anything else, it's so damn hot that it is, frankly, a relief when the three of them crash into the pool with an enormous splash that wets the whole side of tiles between the pool and the garden, and would probably be enough to earn them a lecture from Kyle's mom or dad if they were home, even if they're all technically meant to be adults themselves by now.

The water's cool and refreshing as it closes over his head, and Nick only manages to flail both arms free as soon as they're all underwater, gets his feet underneath him to push back up off the bottom of the pool, gasping as his head pops clear. He hadn't quite managed to get a full breath in before they'd gone in, too busy trying to chirp Bjugs or get a hand free to shove Kyle off him. Kyle's a fucking limpet, though; and when his head breaks the surface as well half a second later he's got both hands on Nick's upper arms trying to duck him almost immediately. Nick isn't actually braced for that and goes under, which means he comes up a second time to see Kyle laughing hysterically and in time to get a face full of water from Nick. He might be a vampire, but he still needs to actually breathe, it seems like; he's never noticed any real advantage in this sort of situation.

At some point, Nick thinks, diving back under water, eyes open in the faintly chlorinated water, stinging just a little while he gets used to it again, he might get himself in trouble by the fact that he thinks of Bjugs as 'Nick' now as often than not, and maybe it should be weirder, that they both have the same name, but Nick's been one of many pretty much since he started school, and if it doesn't seem to bother Kyle — they can both tell which one of him he's talking to, it's never been a problem — well, then who cares, really.

Nick should maybe care.

Or maybe he should care less.

They spend a solid fifteen minutes collectively trying to half-drown each other; Kyle turns traitor after a few minutes and starts helping Nick; the two of them corner Bjugs by the deep end and working together with Nick taking him out at the knees and Kyle launching himself from the side to grab him around the shoulders they manage to get him under water, too, because of course he's fucking tall enough that when he tries he can just stand up normally even in the deepest part of the pool. Technically, Nick can, too, or at least he can if he balances on his toes, but he's not dumb enough to give that fact away if neither of them have worked it out yet.

They wrestle around there for a few more minutes before Bjugs catches Nick's eye, and in silent agreement, the two of them go after Kyle, who yells, and splashes a lot ineffectively as he tries to retreat to the far end before they can grab him. Nick makes a futile dive to try and catch him — he's closer than Bjugs, who'd tried to duck underwater to grab him that way and inevitably nearly taken a foot to the face for his troubles — and all he manages to catch with his fingertips is the waistband of Kyle's trunks. He's tempted to hang on for a split second; if this was a year or two earlier he'd probably still have tried to pants him, too; would've known what was expected of him. And it's not like he doesn't actually want to get Kyle's pants off, just.

Not like that.

Also, Bjugs would almost certainly have something to say about that, too, and Nick likes having friends, thanks.

They seem to have the house — and the pool and yard — to themselves, now, because no one sticks a head out to tell them to can it with the horsing around, or to check if they want snacks. Nick will happily take having to get snacks themselves for a lack of supervision, that's for sure.

Especially when, after they've worn themselves out a bit and are just lazing around, Kyle rolls over and grabs Bjugs — who startles obviously, flailing a little before he manages to stand up — and kisses him. Nick had been just floating on his back, watching the few clouds skidding across the sky above him, and idly thinking about going to grab one of the pool noodles or something to lean on, enjoying the quiet and the cool water, and now he's awkwardly third wheel-ing it, knocking his feet into the side of the pool while he tries not to stare at the way Kyle's trying to climb Bjugs like a tree, arms hooked around his neck and— Jesus, that's a lot of tongue. Nick swallows hard, torn between embarrassment and being ridiculously turned on. He shouldn't be watching this. Them. He shouldn't be watching _them_. He's kind of hypnotized by the way Kyle's hair is dripping down his back, the way Nick's hands look so big against his shoulder blades, holding him steady, the only sound the quiet thunk-thunk-thunk of the filter behind Nick.

They break apart after a minute, and then Kyle looks over at Nick, who knows he's been caught staring, but can't think of anything to do, or say.

Kyle sets his jaw, like he's decided something, ducks his chin the same way he always does when he's about to charge in whether it's a good idea or not, and Nick has a whole ten seconds to think, "Oh shit," before Kyle's letting go of Bjugs and half walking, half-swimming over to Nick, frozen with one hand on the side of the pool, not sure if he should try to beat a belated retreat.

"Um," Nick manages to say, staring at Kyle's pink cheeks — mild sunburn or just the heat or just the fact he's turned on from rubbing up on Bjugs, Jesus, Nick needs to stop thinking about that, or staring, or something— and at his mouth, definitely redder than usual, definitely from the fact he's just been all over Bjugs.

"Yeah," Kyle says, and then he's throwing himself _at Nick_ and rather than anything Nick had actually expected to happen then, instead he's got an armful of Kyle and okay, yeah, apparently he's that aggressive when he kisses anyone.

Nick kisses him back for a long minute, too stunned to really get his hands on him, but completely on board with the way that Kyle has one hand on the back of his neck and the other sneaking down the back of his trunks, and it's amazing and perfect and beautiful right up until Nick— until Bjugs clears his throat and Nick opens his eyes again to see him standing right there, less than a foot away watching his boyfriend kiss him.

"Oops?" Nick says, painfully aware he's never been less smooth in his entire life.

Kyle leans back, a little, but doesn't actually take either hand off Nick. He's having a silent conversation with Nick over his shoulder; Nick can just about see both halves of it on their faces. They might've been friends forever, but Nick's known them both for years now, too.

"I, uh," Nick starts to say, when neither of them looks like they're going to break the silence first. "What the hell, guys."

Kyle rubs his thumb over the skin at Nick's hip, like he's thinking, and Nick just wants to know what the hell he _was_ thinking before jumping him like that, and why. Having to stop to think before explaining it after the fact, while technically a hallmark of the way Kyle approaches almost everything in life, turns out to also be frustrating as hell to deal with on a personal level.

"I mean. What's happening?" Nick eventually asks, a little pathetically, like maybe someone will answer and get them all out of this excruciatingly awkward moment. Also, Nick would like to get five minutes of privacy to deal with the fact that his dick doesn't care in the slightest that — so far as he can tell — Kyle and Nick are a Thing, capital T, and therefore he is absolutely not invited, and needs to stop imagining he's going to be getting any. If he wants to get laid he can just go hang out around the U and find someone; he doesn't need to make this a bigger mess.

"Nick," Kyle whines, and for the first time possibly ever, Nick isn't entirely sure which one of them he's talking to.

Bjugs sighs and lets himself sink half under the water before walking over to where Kyle's wrapped most of the way around Nick, gets a hand on Kyle's shoulder, and the other on Nick's. His hand is really warm, and Nick has to fight the instinctive urge to lean into him, too.

"You remember my mostly-useless super power?" Bjugs says, in a tone that sounds almost like he's joking, except Nick knows he's not. "It's really distracting to spend half our summer noticing how many people want in your pants, Leds."

"Um," Nick says, stupidly, because if that was true then why has he been practically a monk since getting back from Chicago? If there's really that many people then why haven't any of them made a move already?

"Kyle just did," Bjugs points out, and Nick feels himself flush a dull red, ears burning. Had he— "Did I say that out loud?" he asks, and Bjugs snorts, gives him a smile that's back to at least 60% of his normal wattage, so that's something a bit better at least. "Nah, but it was pretty obvious what you were thinking. Your poker face is for shit."

"Oh," Nick says, and looks at Kyle — who's licking his lips and looking _dangerous_ rather than chastised, and then at Bjugs who's just looking— hopeful?

"Wait, is this pass coming from both of you?" Nick asks, very belatedly, it feels like, his stomach flipping with a combination of nerves and pure gut-level desire, heat pouring through him and if he hadn't been getting hard already, that thought would definitely have been enough for him to pop a boner in his trunks. Fuck, he must be so obvious.

"Finally, you get it," Kyle says, impatiently.

"In my defense—" Nick starts to say, but Kyle's already rolling his eyes at him and motioning Bjugs forward, getting him to lean in. It's just as nice kissing him again; for the- fourth time, Nick thinks in something of a daze, they really should watch out, this is becoming a habit. He goes up on his toes for a better angle, so that Nick doesn't get a crick in his neck bending down to kiss him, feels Kyle's hands tighten on his skin with something that Nick can belatedly identify as interest rather than envy.

"Uh, what's on the table here?" Nick asks eventually, after he's kissed Kyle again, too, and leaned back against the tiles on the side of the pool to watch as Nick and Kyle make out some more, feeling significantly more welcome to do so now. It's really fucking hot, on a couple of levels.

"We talked about it," Kyle says, and Nick thinks, _thank god, at least someone did_ , "and we're up for whatever you want."

"Wow," Nick says, off-balance again. Maybe he's got water in his ears or something. "That's, um. A lot."

"We've been fucking all year," Kyle says, matter-of-factly. "So, like. None of this is going to be new. If you were worried."

"And you pick up other people often?" Nick asks, sort of joking, but also morbidly curious.

"It's a pretty exclusive list," Bjugs says, doing something dorky with his eyebrows, and Nick would judge him more if he had any confidence that he wouldn't have done the exact same thing in his position.

"It's just you," Kyle interrupts, "we decided we have a Nick Leddy Exception, okay?"

Nick's flattered. Or he thinks he will be later, probably.

"Oh," he says a second time, and then he has to kiss Kyle again, because he's right there, just like always, and fuck, how long has Nick been wanting to do that? "Thanks? I- you know I wanted to, before," he adds, because Kyle should know that. Bjugs should know as well, but like he said, he pretty much already did. It's kind of an unfair advantage.

"I still can't believe you never even made out," Bjugs says, thoughtfully, and Kyle's expression doesn't really change, but Nick can feel how tense he's gone at that, distant and moody for a long moment before he blinks it away again. "I really thought you guys would- you know, after you won State."

"Kyle was a _sophomore_ ," Nick says, mildly horrified, mostly because he'd definitely wanted to and felt bad about it. Seriously, he'd been, what, fifteen? Jesus. Nick's not into jail bait.

"Didn't stop Nick," Kyle says smugly, and this time Nick knows exactly which one of them he's talking to, and can't help himself, narrows his eyes at Bjugs.

"We didn't-" Bjugs starts to say, and then gives Kyle a solid shove to the shoulder. "Kyle, come on. Focus."

"Right, right," Kyle says, and Nick reminds himself that they're basically the same age, he doesn't need to be all weird and protective over Kyle; Bjugs has got his best interests at heart just as much as he does. He _knows_ that.

"Can we have this conversation with more clothes on?" Nick asks, because there's something about standing outdoors in cold water halfway up your chest with nothing but thin trunks on that's making him feel more vulnerable than he'd like. Plus he can feel sweat prickling along his back and in his hair; he's more than ready to go sack out in the A/C for a while.

"Or less?" Bjugs suggests, and oh, that's his hand on Nick's side now, too; Nick suppresses a shudder. Fuck, he really wants this. There's probably a lot of reasons it's a bad idea, and yet, none of them are actually suggesting themselves to him right now.

"Less is also good," Nick admits, and then adds, "But with air conditioning, please."

"Kyle's room is good," Bjugs says immediately.

"And Curt's not going to be home until dinner," Kyle adds promptly, because even when they don't actually check in the two of them can always be depended on to keep track of each other. If Kyle doesn't think any of his brothers are likely to walk in on them, then they're not.

"Okay," Nick says. "Okay, yeah, let's. Do that."

He's not the only one who moves embarrassingly quickly to get out of the pool, grabbing the side and hauling himself out that way rather than swimming over to the steps. He rubs the towel over his head desultorily, getting the worst of the slow drip down the back of his neck that he hates, and then tries to towel off everything else after that. It's easier said than done; he'd just grabbed the first towel he'd laid a hand on at home and it's not all that big or all that absorbent, really, and he's pretty sure that he still qualifies as damp, if not actively dripping by the time he gives it up as a bad job. Plus, it's all kinds of awkward to try and do any of that as turned on as he is. Nick's using every last scrap of self control that he's honed over the past five years to not just get a hand on his dick already, and the fact his trunks are plastered to him isn't helping hide that at all.

Kyle's waiting impatiently by the door by the time that Nick looks up again, and Bjugs is a couple steps behind him, his own towel tied around his waist, giving Nick a good look at a whole lot of thigh — there's a lot of Bjugs and not all that much towel. Nick's mouth goes dry. They have to be nuts to be even considering this, but fuck, he wants it.

"Leds, come on," Kyle says, and when Nick slowly gets moving again, it's with Kyle's gaze stapled to him, not giving him an inch.

"Dude, you're gonna drip all over the floor like that," he says, when Nick reaches the door. "You know the rule."

Nick does; usually they horse around outdoors long enough to dry off more, or spread themselves out in the sun, leaving fuzzy person-shaped damp spots on the tiles as the water steams off. The Raus are pretty laid back — they sort of had to be, with four kids and their friends clogging up the yard more often than not — but Nick does not want to get yelled at by Kyle's mom. Especially now that he's done stuff with Kyle that he needs to not think about around parents.

Some days that whole adulthood thing seems like a total illusion.

"Just take them off," Bjugs says, and shrugs, the tiny droplets of water on his shoulders catching and refracting in the sunlight, and he jerks his head, points his chin towards the deckchair where he's laid his trunks out to dry, Kyle's spread over the back of the chair next to it. Which means that those towels are all they're wearing, Nick's brain helpfully puts together a long moment later. _Fuck_.

"Oh, uh, sure," Nick says, once he can actually talk without swallowing his tongue. He wraps his own towel around his waist and tugs his trunks off from underneath, grimacing as the fabric tries to glue itself to his thighs, and hissing when he's not as careful as he could've been in maneuvering around his dick. It's not like he hasn't seen either of them naked before — they've been in locker rooms together on and off for years — and it's not like he wasn't changing right in front of them earlier that same day, but something about it feels different now. Also, sometimes Kyle's neighbors are fucking nosy.

Nick tosses his trunks in the general direction of the outdoor furniture, and turns back to the door. Kyle's shooed Nick through already, and is holding the door, waiting for him, so Nick follows, walking fast, one hand resting as casually as possible where he's knotted the towel, because he doesn't want to look uptight but there's something about being that close to naked which makes him feel extra vulnerable.

Kyle follows him in, closing the door firmly and flicking the lock — Nick can hear it click. He looks back over his shoulder to ask something, he's not sure what, maybe just to check again that this is okay, but Kyle gives him a shove in the small of his back, wordlessly instructing him to follow Bjugs upstairs.

Kyle's room looks much the same as it usually does; a pile of books on the desk, clothes strewn around in front of his dresser, the bed rumpled and unmade, the curtains half-drawn so it's shockingly dark compared to how bright it had been outdoors, and the room refreshingly cool after the steam bath that is Minnesota in late summer. Bjugs sits down on the end of the bed, and it takes everything Nick has not to stare; the towel is really not hiding much of anything, and Nick should maybe feel worse about the fact that he's pretty sure that's a Lion King towel, which means he's basically looking at a Disney classic and thinking about Nick Bjugstad's really obvious erection, and this is- a very strange day, when it comes down to it.

Another click from behind him makes him startle a little, and Kyle laughs, turning back from the door — which he's also just locked, and instead of feeling trapped Nick just feels hotter and kind of hungry.

"How are we," Nick starts to ask, and then changes his mind, says, "What are we doing, guys?"

Bjugs scoots back on the bed, swings his legs up, and then gives Nick and Kyle one of those thousand-watt grins that suggests that not only is everything perfectly fine and great, everything's absolutely going to stay that way. Nick can't imagine how he could've looked any happier when he got drafted, or won Mr Hockey, or anything else good that's happened or is going to happen in his life. Also, now that Bjugs is on the bed Nick can't stop looking at it and thinking about him and Kyle, how they've been sleeping together all year, apparently, how they've probably had sex right there and he's honestly not sure whether he's more jealous or turned on. Maybe both.

"We can take it slow," Kyle offers, walking over to wrap his hands around Nick's forearm, tugging him over to the bed, where Bjugs is making room for them both. "We did kind of spring this on you."

"I have actually had sex," Nick says, a little insulted. He's done some of this before, although admittedly not the whole threesome part. Or with people he knew this well. Hooking up with a guy from his algebra class wasn't quite the same thing. And maybe he's had teammates that are stupidly hot, or who have really nice arms, but he's been smart, he hasn't actually made a move on any of them.

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle says, and reaches out to get his hands on Bjugs, crawling on top of him and kissing him, hands sliding down his sides and getting stuck on the top of the towel. Nick's torn between feeling a little like a third wheel again and wishing Kyle would tug a little harder.

"Nick," Bjugs says, a long minute later, as Kyle sits up and is eyeing Nick with an intensity that Nick's more used to seeing on the ice, and he's reminded, helplessly, of the triple overtime winner. The way Kyle does all the hard work and then waves it off, says he's just lucky. Nick's pretty sure they're all about to get real lucky here.

"Fucking get over here already," Bjugs adds, and Nick thinks, 'the hell with it'. They're good enough friends that they can laugh this off later if it's terrible. And it's mutually assured destruction if they tell anyone else, ever, too.

"Tell me what you like," Nick says, to both of them, and then he twists his hips, scrambles so his weight is half on Kyle, half tipping towards Bjugs, and lands close enough to his mouth for another kiss; hot and frantic.

Kyle gets his hands on Nick's ass, his touch warm and soothing as he runs his hand up along Nick's backbone, and his thigh is warm under Nick's body, too, not at all chilled from how long they'd been in the pool, running hot and starting to sweat a little. Nick's got his tongue in Bjugy's mouth, and he's grinding his dick into Kyle's leg, can feel Kyle's hard-on through a layer of terrycloth, too, hot against his side, and oh, hey, apparently the energetic wriggling it had taken to climb up to reach Nick's mouth had left his towel behind. Nick shrugs mentally and decides to stop worrying about it. He's pretty sure he's going to get off sometime soon, and it's been weeks since he had anything more than his own hand, since that hook up in Vancouver, and he has to pull away for a second and bite his own lip to get some control back, because thinking about _that_ just makes him want to bite someone — two someones — and that's absolutely not on the table, it can't be. Nick's kept that secret long enough now that he can't let himself seriously consider fucking it up.

"That's really hot," Kyle says, fingers digging in to Nick's side, like he's pushing him closer to Bjugs, his breath hot against the side of Nick's collarbone, wriggling in so he's tucked right up against the both of them.

Nick has to stop kissing Bjugs for a minute there to catch his breath, and since they're all there anyway it seems just as important to kiss Kyle again, too, running a hand down his side, shoving the towel out of the way.

Kyle wriggles helpfully, grabbing and yanking at the edge of the towel rucked up under him, caught under both of their bodies, and it's Bjugs who yelps then, shoving both Nick and Kyle aside for a second.

"Watch it," he says, narrowing his eyes at Kyle, and cupping a protective hand over his dick, rolling onto his side so he can look at both of them. Nick's slid onto his stomach in between them, newly conscious of the damp towels crumpled up underneath him, and the way the bedding is also pretty tangled. There's something digging into his hip, and if the way Bjugs is trying to move carefully is any indication, he's just had a similar experience. Nick tries not to snicker, he really does, but he can't help it, choking off the giggle threatening to spill out.

"Kyle," Nick says, faux-solicitously, "You really should make more of an effort to make your bed."

"Fuck off," Kyle says, not missing a beat. "I'm not the one who dumped out half their hockey bag because it's 'easier to find things' that way."

Nick squirms up onto his elbows, looking between Kyle and Bjugs, the latter of whom is definitely slowly and steadily flushing a darker pink.

"Um," Bjugs says, and then he sighs, giving in, and adds, "Okay, you're right, sorry. Uh. We can just shove everything on the floor and deal with it later?"

Nick's more tempted by that plan than he maybe should be. Kyle's definitely sold, though, because he's already reaching over Nick and shoving at Bjugs, grabbing the now-loose towels and bundling up the thin quilt and just shoving them all heedlessly toward the foot of the bed. There's a quiet thunk as something plastic comes loose from the tangle of bedding and bounces onto the floor. Nick makes a mental note to be careful not to stand on it later, but doesn't put any more thought than that into it, because Kyle had just kept moving, climbing right over Nick and onto Bjugs again, shoving him onto his back before settling heavily over his hips, knees either side.

It's kind of stupidly hot; Nick can see everything, and he catches his breath, watching. Kyle's hard, ghosts a hand over the length of his dick — Nick inhales sharply at the same time as Bjugs does — before leaning forward, bracing himself with his palm flat on Bjugs' chest before he ducks his head down to kiss him again. Nick's also perfectly situated to watch Bjugs squirm, see him try to arch up into Kyle, running his hands over his back and sides. He can see Bjugs is hard, starting to leak a little, too, and all three of them make some kind of noise when Kyle shifts on top of him to grind down. More than anything else, Nick can see how easy they are with each other, how they know each other's responses, moving in sync. It looks so natural — Bjugs grabbing Kyle around the waist and shoving him back over his thighs, so he can jerk Kyle off and rub off on him at the same time — that Nick's honestly not sure for a long moment how he's supposed to fit in there anyway.

"Nick," Kyle hisses, reaching out for him, and oh, maybe that's how. Nick's body had responded before his brain had quite caught up, he'd known that one was directed at him, didn't need to wait for Bjugs to chime in with "Leds, c'mon, get over here," before scrambling onto his knees, pressing himself along the length of Kyle's back. Kyle's warm where he's leaning back into Nick, skin still a little damp from the pool, starting to dampen more with sweat, too, and Nick indulges himself for a minute, nuzzles over the nape of his neck, scrapes his teeth lightly over the tendon at the top of his shoulders.

Kyle bucks forward a little at that, and Bjugs makes a pleased noise too, moving his hand faster on Kyle's dick.

Nick lets himself bite down just a little, just with the flat edges of his incisors, sucking over the skin so that he'll leave a mark, even if it's not wholly what he wants to do. It's something that mostly seems normal, at least. He reaches around to cover Bjugs' hand with one of his own, and Bjugs makes a happy noise, shifts his wrist enough so that the two of them are jerking Kyle off together. Bjugs lets Nick set the pace, which is either sweet, or an incredibly effective way to get both him and Kyle wound up all the faster. Nick leans in a little harder, letting more of his weight go onto them both, his own dick rubbing up against Kyle's skin, trapped between their bodies the same way he and Bjugs have Kyle between them. It's so simple and yet so hot, and Nick's breathing too fast already, knows he doesn't have long.

Nick can feel it when Kyle tenses, muscles going taut, back arching like he's fighting it, and Nick feels a rush of fondness steal through him at that, it's just so— it's so fucking Kyle. He lets his grip tighten just enough over Bjugs' hand, murmurs, "C'mon, fuck," in Kyle's ear, and Kyle says, "fuck, oh, fuck" clearly and then comes all over their joint grip, come smearing over Bjugs' stomach and groin.

"Holy shit," Bjugs says, as Kyle sags forward, sated and boneless, and they kiss again, soft and sweet.

Nick wouldn't mind watching that some more, he really wouldn't, but now he's fucking desperate to get off, and if the way Bjugs is moving is any indication, he's not much better.

"Oops," Kyle says, completely insincere, but he does move — carefully — off Bjugs, sliding over and flopping onto his side so that he's got a perfect view.

"Leds," Bjugs says, a faint whine around the edges of his voice now, "Can you—?"

Nick doesn't need much more direction than that; he can read Bjugs nearly as well as he can Kyle, and even given that, it's surprisingly easy to go from there. He moves enough to get them both lined up better, gets his hand on Bjugs' dick this time, runs his fingertips lightly over him, teasing, and when Bjugs opens his mouth to complain Nick brings his hand up to his own mouth, spits into his palm — sticky and damp already from where he'd been touching Kyle — and then gets his hand back on Bjugs, stroking him fast and evenly.

Bjugs is moving under him, too, giving Nick somewhere to rub off against, the head of his dick sliding over sweat-slick skin, and Nick's honestly not sure which one of them comes first, just knows that it doesn't take much longer at all until they've collapsed in a heap, filthy and overheated. Kyle's half asleep, and Nick's tempted to join him, except he knows they should actually clean up a bit first, just in case. It's easier to think that than actually do it, though, and so Nick lets himself doze like that, enjoying the cool of the air conditioning on the back of his legs and over his shoulders, contrasting with Bjugs' warmth under him and Kyle, hot against his side.

"Maybe we should just get back in the pool," Bjugs says; sensibly, as far as Nick's concerned. "That'd be easier."

Kyle wakes up enough to reach over and pinch him; Bjugs doesn't even twitch. "We're not getting jizz in the fucking pool," he says firmly. "We've had this conversation."

"One day, man," Bjugs says easily, eyes still closed, the only movement the slow rise and fall of his chest — which Nick is very conscious of, still sprawled half on top of him. "One day you're going to loosen up. I hear the beach is nice in Florida."

Nick raises his head at that to meet Kyle's eyes, and they share a look in complete sympathy. "Uh huh," Nick says skeptically. "Just keep telling yourself that, Bjugs."

* * *

They never talk about it much more than that, but Nick spends the summer working hard on the ice, and sweating in much more immediately enjoyable ways off the ice, hooking up with Kyle, or Bjugs or — most often — the both of them, though by the time September rolls around, they're all spending more time training than anything else.

The semester starts earlier than training camp, so there's always been an end date on this; Nick's known that the whole time. He supposes they could probably have spent a little more time together before he has to head back to Chicago, it's not like the University of Minnesota dorms are any further away than Bjugs' place, really. But they'll be playing together soon, and Nick has to get his head in the game to stick it out in Chicago, it's easier to just let themselves make a clean break then and there. It's been a good summer, and if it happens again; great. If it doesn't, well. Nick's not going to forget any of it any time soon, that's for sure.

Training camp is a lot of new faces again, a few of the same old ones, and Nick finds himself spending most of his off-ice time with Smitty, Pirri and Morin again; they've all spent enough time together to fall easily back into old habits, automatically spending extra time on drills together at the end of practice and taking over one of their rooms for video games or whatever more often than not. Most of the new guys are older, vets looking for one more shot at a Cup, or just cheap enough to slide in under the cap; Nick's crossing his fingers he's not going to have to spend any time on I90 this year, that's for sure. There's a couple of rookies, too, and Nick can't help but notice Saad again; tall, steady, and quietly determined. He doesn't say much in the locker room, but he's the one who sticks it out longest, impresses in the pre-season, and stays up with the team for the opener on the road, and the home opener, even after the first round picks have been sent back to their Junior teams already.

The game in Dallas is no one's best showing; Nick's goal in the last couple of minutes all that keeps them from being shut out, but they make up for it back home in Chicago, putting five goals on the Stars, and overall it feels like a much better start to the season at that point.

Saad gets called in to the front office after practice the next day and they all know what that is. Nick could tell just from the way he's moving when he comes back to pack up his gear; the bone-deep need to get back up as soon as he can, to make it and show every team that passed him over just what they missed out on. Nick definitely respects that. He claps him on the shoulder and tells him good luck down in the O, see you later, all the things you say to anyone in that position.

If Nick's tempted to let his hand linger a little, well. He's discreet, not blind. He's not going to make it weird though, not with a teammate, or a guy who's probably going to be one, eventually.

That policy is, pretty much, the only reason he hasn't tried even subtly hitting on Smitty; he's wanted to more than once, but so far he's caught himself just in time every time. It's probably a good thing that Nick can't get drunk, though.

Or so he'd thought.

As soon as they realized that Nick had inherited more than just the family ears, his mom and dad had been extra careful about avoiding cooking with garlic, or ordering anything with it on the side. Like anyone, Nick's read a million stories about vampires being repelled by garlic or allergic to it, and they'd been told it was a good idea to avoid it, so he'd just done that without really thinking much more about it. It was just a thing they did, and when he was looking after himself in college and in Rockford, a thing he did. His mom at least had never really cooked with it much anyway, probably, she said, because her mom hadn't, for the obvious reasons. So by the time Nick accidentally inhaled half a plate of garlic and red wine pasta over at Smitty's place one day back in his first season at Rockford, he was so used to ordering or making his own food that he'd straight up forgotten to actually tell Smitty or anyone else he didn't eat it.

Thankfully, by the time it hit him they were all fighting for elbow room on the couch and in the midst of a serious Super Smash Bros tournament, which mostly consisted of half the room chirping while drinking the cheapest beer anyone with ID had been able to grab, while the other half button-mashed desperately — Pirri claimed there was an art to it, and was good enough that Nick almost believed him, although seriously, come on, just fucking hitting anything on the controller had an equally good chance of working — and tried not to kick over the beers at their feet before the losers had to turn over the Wii-motes to their audience.

Which meant when Nick got slowly more and more flushed for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact Smitty kept the thermostat in the 70s and there were eight guys in a small room, and when he — fuck, it was embarrassing — got kind of giggly and started tipping ever so slowly into Smitty's side, well. The guys just chirped him for being an epic lightweight, and handed him another bottle.

Nick managed to laugh that off, as it slowly dawned on him that something was definitely off, and put the bottle down, trying to get himself to focus. He had to stop staring at Smitty's neck, framed perfectly by the dorky polo shirt he was wearing, collar popped and all. He managed that at least, but it didn't help him all that much, because then he wound up staring at Smitty's arms instead. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he couldn't help but admire the way Smitty was seriously _built_ , and he felt his teeth press against the inside of his lip as he also admired the way the veins in his forearms popped when he twisted the controller, jabbing at the buttons before groaning and sinking back into the couch cushions — and more firmly against Nick — in defeat.

Nick tried to swallow, frantically, tried to lick suddenly-dry lips without actually opening his mouth enough that anyone could see his teeth, not that he'd really expect anyone to be looking. All he managed to do was to catch the side of his tongue on his teeth, and the tiny spot of blood — even if it was his own — plus the spark of pain gave him enough motivation to at least straighten up and stop leaning so heavily against Smitty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so unsteady, head fuzzy and thoughts coming more slowly, and it was so tempting to just lean back in and smile dopily, maybe consider—

"Hey, I think Leds needs some fresh air," Morin said from somewhere off to the side, his voice breaking in to what Nick would later label as excessively self-indulgent daydreaming, and Nick blinked a couple of times and then felt someone's hand wrapped tightly around his own biceps, pulling him to his feet. And wow, yeah, he was definitely unsteady, reaction time a second slower than usual, and he lurched to the side and nearly stood on Stants, or maybe it was Hayesy, and considering how little they looked alike, it was probably not great that he wasn't totally sure.

Instead of dragging him down the hall to the front door Mo kept hold of Nick's sleeve and just hauled him over to the door out onto the balcony. It wasn't even sealed off for the winter — either Smitty hadn't bothered or he was actually keen on freezing his nuts off occasionally for some reason, Nick wasn't too sure which — so with a screech that made the peanut gallery in the living room complain in stereo, the door came open and he and Morin both stumbled out there.

Mo dragged the door shut again, to a chorus of approval, and then turned to look at Nick. The cooler air hit like a slap in the face, and Nick abruptly felt closer to normal, and then kind of queasy as he realized just how unusual he'd been acting. It wasn't, thankfully, as fuck-awful cold as it could've been, and Nick took several deep breaths with gratitude, the chill just enough to make him wish he was wearing a hoodie still, cool air prickling at the inside of his nose and filling his lungs.

"Thanks," he said after a minute, helplessly aware that he didn't know what else to say, he certainly couldn't explain this.

"You don't normally get drunk like this," Mo said, which Nick would later have to remember and try to fake better, because no one should be noticing that. "And you were looking, uh. I figured you'd probably thank me later if I dragged you out here for a bit." He scuffed his feet in the drift of fallen leaves that had built up in the corner of the balcony, blown in by the late fall wind and not yet cleaned out, and wouldn't meet Nick's gaze.

"Um, yeah," Nick said, leaning back against the sliding door, and trying to make himself think. "Wait, what?"

Morin took a deep breath, looked behind himself to check the door was shut, and said, "You were looking at Smitty like, uh. Like you wanted to eat him?" He forced a laugh at that which Nick was definitely not too far gone to identify as such.

Nick felt a chill that had absolutely nothing to do with the air temperature run through him, stomach roiling. Mo was still talking, though. "And, like. I get it, but you probably don't want him to, huh? But, you know, if you want to hook up some time or whatever, I'm pretty discreet."

 _Oh_ , Nick thought, relieved. Or at least, partially relieved, because he still felt fucking weird and Mo coming out to him — and maybe hitting on him? — didn't actually make things any easier to grasp.

"Oh," was what he said, eventually, tongue thick and clumsy, too off-balance to come up with anything more eloquent. "I, yeah, maybe. Thanks for telling me? We can talk about this later, right?"

And by later Nick maybe meant never, but he was planning to cross that bridge when he came to it.

"Great," Morin said, and Nick was aware enough at least to see the way some indefinable tension went out of his frame at that. "Uh, you feel up to heading back inside again now? It's fucking freezing out here."

Nick thought about it for a few seconds longer, and yeah, the cold air had cleared his head, and he could sit further away from Ben when they got back indoors without it looking pointed at all, so he'd probably be fine with that. "Yeah," he said, and then, again, "Thanks."

"Let's just hope those fuckers didn't decide to be funny and lock us out here," Mo said, and tried the door which — after a concerning moment of resistance — opened just fine.

They stuck it out for almost another hour, watching the other guys get progressively more and more invested in the competition, before Mo stood up and said, "Hey, this was fun, but I think I'm out. Want a ride, Leds? Guys?"

No one else volunteered, clearly all still too into the competition, but Nick gratefully took the excuse, mumbled something about being tired, and followed Mo down the stairs and to his car.

Neither of them said much in the short drive, and more than anything Nick was aware that his head was still spinning, although he was starting to feel steadier again, closer to normal.

Mo pulled into the lot outside Nick's place, put the car in park and looked over at him, the streetlights throwing half his face into shadow. He wasn't bad looking, Nick had to admit, and hey, if he was up for it, then maybe some time. But definitely not then, not when Nick felt so close to being out of control.

Some of that must have been visible on his face, because Morin just gave him a tired grin, and said, "Well, I'd offer to kiss you goodnight, but I bet garlic breath on top of being that buzzed would be a pretty bad combo, so go mix in some water, huh Leds?"

"Wait, what?" Nick said, frozen as he reached for the door handle, halfway to getting up and out. "What garlic?"

"Dude," Mo said, "Smitty put a ton in the pasta. You couldn't taste it?"

"Uh, right," Nick said, trying to think fast, which was just- not happening. "Yeah, I didn't notice. Thanks for the ride and, uh, everything."

"Sure thing," Morin said, "See you later, Leds. Try not to look too hungover at practice, huh?"

"Fuck off," Nick said, because at least that was a hard-wired hockey reflex he could depend on. "Later, Mo."

Mo didn't actually start the car and drive off until Nick was safely in the front door, which was kind of sweet and also kind of embarrassing, but definitely appreciated. He made it into his bedroom and let himself fall face-down on the bed, waiting for his equilibrium to settle. So. This was what garlic exposure did, apparently. Nick should maybe have done some research into this before.

He could admit that it would, maybe, be almost fun, if he didn't have anywhere to be the next day, or people he had to worry about giving himself away in front of. So, basically never, at this point. Shit.

He dug his laptop out just to check quickly that he didn't need to worry about any worse symptoms, and if he'd ever thought to look before it was indeed all there: garlic poisoning, symptoms, and then — because of course there was — a ton of links selling recreational doses of garlic powder, mixed with all sorts of other crap that Nick was going to just assume did either nothing or bad shit he wasn't interested in experiencing.

Either way, it looked like he'd have to be exposed to a lot more garlic than that to do him any harm at all, so he just notched it up as a kind of weird experience and made sure to be extra vigilant about his pregame meals for the next couple of months.

Almost everyone who'd been at Smitty's was clearly and loudly disappointed in his failure to appear appropriately hungover the next morning. Nick just smiled blandly at them all and skated down to take a couple of shots on Hutton.

* * *

It hadn't been much longer after that before Nick had been called up, and he'd been too busy and too distracted to actually take Mo up on that offer, although maybe if he hadn't vanished so early in the evening after the bronze medal game — or if Nick hadn't wound up getting stuck in the Minnesota hockey vortex — well, it wasn't like they weren't going to have time later if it was meant to happen.

Instead, Nick had spent the rest of the season up with the Hawks, and then summer with Kyle and Nick, and then, immensely gratifyingly, all 82 games of the next season up with the Hawks too. He'd had Mo crash with him a couple times, and then when Shawzy had gotten called up and it was clear he was staying up too they'd got a place together. Shawzy was a surprisingly great roommate; Nick would have said they were good friends before they'd moved in together, and they'd just got closer since. It was just convenient that they turned out to have mutually compatible levels of required cleanness, and that Shawzy liked cooking. And wasn't at all nosy about what Nick kept in his shelf in the refrigerator, although Nick was starting to think that if there was anyone he was going to tell in Chicago, probably it would be Andy. It hadn't really come up yet, which was nice.

The playoffs seem to come at them even faster and harder Nick's second year; Tazer only just back from his concussion, and the rest of the team still disjointed.

The post-season is fun, though; it might only be Nick's second year but he can already see how easy it is to get used to this, everything heightened and suddenly so much more important. The roster expanding in the days before game one is another thing that's easier to handle this time; now that he's comfortable in the room, and there's only a few new names to get used to this time when they add the Black Aces after the IceHogs miss the playoffs again, and after the guys still playing major junior are done with their own seasons.

Nick should have expected it, of course, he knew Saad had had a solid year back in the OHL, but it still takes him a second to regain his equilibrium the first time he walks into the locker room and sees him there; standing by his stall, looking attentively at Shawzy who's in full flight with some story or another that requires a lot of gesturing. Nick reminds himself to just act normal, and heads over to say hi. Saad talks a little more this time, more confident, but he knows the deal, he's just up for the experience, it's not like he's going to get to play.

And then Hossa gets knocked out by Raffi fucking Torres, and adding insult to injury, they're down 2-1 in the series, and Saad gets the call to lace up for game 4 at the UC with the rest of them.

Nick spends some quality time beating himself up after Boedker gets past him in OT to take the game and put the Hawks into an elimination game in game 5, fuck, but works it out on the bike after the game, makes sure he moves on before he even gets to sleep that night. They've got this. They've come back from worse. And it sure is sweet to take game 5 in front of the Yotes fans in Glendale, giving themselves one last chance. It feels like something of a second chance when the Saader gets the puck over to Frolik and he sends it right onto Nick's tape for the tying goal, too; like redemption for giving one up two days ago, and Nick's grinning like his face is going to break when Fro and Saader and Bolly and Oduya all come crashing into celebrate.

The vindication of winning in Phoenix gets wiped out absolutely by game 6; they're back home, in front of their fans again, where they should be great, but nothing goes right all game; hitting post after post, not getting any of the bounces, and by the time the final buzzer sounds they've ended the season shut out 4-0.

They're done.

Nick feels hollow, sitting in the locker room afterward. Making it worse, he was on the ice for both even strength goals, and he can tell that minus is going to be needling him all summer. Later, he'll be able to use it as motivation, as a drive to improve, but right now it just tastes bitter and awful. And now that their playoffs are done, there's not much else to think about other than the fact they still aren't sure they'll get next season. Nick hasn't read an update from the PA with his full attention for the last few weeks, but it's not like another lockout would surprise anyone. Probably not worth worrying about until it happens, but that's going to sit in the back of his head for the next couple months, too.

At least he'll have good company back in Minnesota.


	2. Chapter 2

Brandon's first Stanley Cup playoff game is unspectacular; he'll remember it, of course, because it was the first time, and he was torn between nerves and being so excited he could hardly sit still before the puck dropped. He makes almost no impact, though; no shots, no points, and he's only a plus one by virtue of being on the ice when Morrison manages to get one past Smith. It's not the kind of game he'd imagined as a kid, or even last week, when the idea of actually drawing in to the lineup for the Hawks again this season seemed so far-fetched as to be ridiculous.

The second game goes better; he gets his first point, secondary assist on Leddy's goal, getting them on the board at last, and more importantly: that game they fucking win.

He's out of the lineup again for game six, and watching the team lose from the press box feels just as bad as being on the ice for it; worse because this is it, the season done and over. They clean out their lockers — not that Brandon had really even had one, this year — and do exit interviews, go through all the motions, although Brandon gets the sense it's different this year, not knowing when the next season is going to start.

He goes out that night with a group of the younger guys, Krugs and Shawzy and Smitty and Bicks, and Leds too, and they have a couple of drinks, studiously ignoring the talking heads on the TVs in the bar. It turns into pretty much just talking shit until they're either too tired or too drunk to feel as bad about the season ending so soon.

It's not a particularly late night, but Brandon's well aware he needs to pack his bags again when he gets back to the hotel, has a flight home early the next morning, so he begs off pretty early. Leddy walks most of the way back to the hotel with him, says he'll just grab a cab from the lobby there. He's easy to talk to, quiet and kind of a nerd in the same way Brandon is, and just like in training camp, he can't help but feel himself respond to that, wants to keep talking to him.

It's kind of funny to think about him and Shawzy being such good friends; Brandon gets on well with both of them so far, but they're very, very different people. It takes all kinds, Brandon thinks to himself, and then they're standing in front of the automatic doors, and Brandon's bed is ten flights up, and he should really go already, summer stretching out ahead of him, but instead he finds himself talking fast, trying to finish making the point he'd been working toward, and Nick just nods, and smiles at him.

There's a beat of silence when Brandon wraps up where they just look at each other, awkward, no social script for this point. Brandon tells himself not to over-think this, and reaches out to fist-bump Leds, says, "Hey, see you next season. Have a good summer, man."

"You too," Leddy says, flashes him a close-mouthed smile, but Brandon can see he means it, eyes crinkling up at the corners, too, and it makes something warm kindle in his stomach, a swooping rush of heat that tells him that if he's not careful he's going to be in a world of trouble here. "Text me or whatever, huh?" Leddy adds, and then he leans in to hug Brandon around the shoulders, the hockey version of the classic bro hug, and Brandon manages to say, "Yeah, sure," and "Night, Leds," before turning to go in, and that's the last time he sees Leddy for a couple months.

It's not the last time he thinks about him, though.

* * *

As the off-season stretches on, it becomes more and more clear that the NHL and the PA aren't going to find some kind of eleventh hour compromise. The media have painted another lockout as inevitable, and while Brandon certainly hoped they were wrong, he's not surprised at all when first training camps, and then preseason games, and then regular season games are all canceled in turn, wiped off the theoretical schedule.

It might have been academic for him anyway, but he thinks he would have had a chance at the show if they'd had training camp like normal. But they don't, so Brandon reports to Rockford and the AHL, together with a mish-mash of other players in similar boats. He looks around the locker room their first day, sees Shawzy and Boller, heads together and probably plotting some kind of mayhem already; Leddy and Kruger in another corner, quietly professional, and Smitty by them. All guys he's spent some time with, at training camp last year and up with the Hawks by the end of the season. It's good to see them, even if it's not the locker room any of them were hoping to be in.

The first few weeks are an adjustment; if Brandon had thought he'd started to get an understanding of what playing professionally was like, with a couple games up with the Hawks… well, now he knows he was wrong. It's a slog, and even after training hard most of the summer the adjustment period is tough. It's like the travel from playing junior with the expectations of playing in the NHL, the worst of both worlds in some ways.

He gets three games in and then gets hurt, which is the last fucking thing he needs. And then a week later Leddy's hurt, too, and so the two of them spend a lot of time together, working through their respective rehab exercises, bitching about the lack of decent places for takeout in Rockford, and playing way too much XBox.

Brandon’s probably over at Leddy’s place as often as he is his own; hotel rooms pall fast when there’s not much to do and virtually no one else around when the IceHogs are out on the road.

October might've been a wash, but Brandon finally gets healthy and back in the lineup in November, and it's like something's clicked. He gets the measure of it all pretty quickly after that, starts putting up points. He's got a better handle on what he needs to be doing now, and the challenge of meeting that — and outperforming it — immediately gets under his skin, gets him going.

Leddy had come back the same week as he did, and they start an unofficial competition to see who can score the most, since Leddy’s tallying assists almost as fast as Brandon is. He’s outworking the opposition and feeding the puck to their forwards in the offensive zone, giving defenders another scoring threat to worry about, which of course gives the forwards even more freedom. It’s fun to play in this system, with players this skilled, and even if they’re not winning all the time, they’re winning enough, and it turns out that feels just as good in the A as it does in the OHL. Not quite the same as the NHL, sure, but it’s the best they’re going to get any time soon, by the looks of how the negotiations are going.

They get two wins over the Monsters to close out the week, getting back to Rockford early enough on the Sunday that Brandon decides to just go hang out with Leds and catch the Steelers game there instead of going back to his own room and inevitably sleeping through half the game.

He and Leds keep each other awake well enough; talking to each other over the ad breaks and yelling at the TV while the Steelers make fumble after fumble. They’d taken a lead in the first quarter, at least, but spent the rest of the game falling further behind the Browns, for fuckssake.

“This is embarrassing,” Brandon mutters, narrowing his eyes at the TV, as if he can get players into better positions by sheer force of frustration. Leddy laughs at him -- easy for him to do, he doesn’t have a horse in this race -- and just says, “Sucks to be you, man.”

“You suck,” Brandon grumbles, well aware it’s not one of his better comebacks, but hey. He punctuates that by kicking -- gently, neither of them wants to be back on IR -- at Leddy’s ankle; his feet up on the coffee table next to Brandon’s and in easy range.

“Tough luck, Saader,” Leddy says, entirely without sympathy, his shoulders shaking as he laughs, and Brandon elbows him with equal lack of remorse. If he’s going to just sit there and give Brandon shit then Brandon’s going to dish it back out. It would be weirder if he didn’t, really. Brandon knows how this goes, and friendly scuffling on the couch is practically required, if not merely normal.

Leddy gets up to grab them some snacks at half-time. Without actually discussing it they’ve both decided they’re cheating on their diets for once, so that means pizza and a couple of beers as well as pretzels and whatever chips Leddy had knocking around his kitchenette.

Brandon gets up to get an actual plate, comfortable enough to dig around Leddy’s cupboards for one since he’d rather not eat pizza over his lap if he doesn’t have to. They work through the entire thing fast enough that the game isn’t even in play again before Brandon’s getting up to dump his plate in the sink, taking Leds’ as well since he’s up.

He stops by the corner of the couch on his way back to stretch, trying to work the kinks out of his back, loosen up the way his hips feel a little tighter than they should. It’s not the worst travel day that they’ve had but it was long enough; almost eight hours on the bus, what with stops and traffic and all that crap. Brandon’s still working on remembering to stop and stretch regularly now that they’re off the bus, doesn’t want to let himself stiffen up after sitting that long. There’s no dignified way to do that, but by this point they’ve all seen each other doing far worse, although Brandon could do without Leds giving him points out of ten.

No one thinks that whole “the Russian judge gives you a 4” thing is funny any more, c’mon.

After he shoves Leddy’s feet out of his spot on the couch and sits down again, Brandon gets his own back a little by pointing out that he’s doing better than Leds in the points at actually matter, ie, in the box score. Without missing a beat, Leds claims that as a forward Brandon's just being a puck hog, and the dumb thing he does with his eyebrows as he says it makes it clear the pun is entirely intended. That terrible joke earns him a hail of pretzels to the face — Brandon’s aim is better than Batch’s today, at least — and when he tries to return fire, Brandon drops the remote and tackles him so that Leddy winds up face-down on the couch, with Brandon sitting triumphantly on him.

Leddy mumbles something into the upholstery that Brandon deliberately doesn't hear — the words 'a dick' were perfectly audible if nothing else — but Brandon just grins and doesn't move.

"Sorry, what?" he says, and Leddy manages to get enough leverage to turn his head to the side and tell Brandon very clearly what he thinks of him. It's not flattering at all, and Brandon laughs so hard he actually falls off Leds, and off the couch; gets stuck between the coffee table and the couch, the frame of the couch digging into his back.

It's probably not good for either of them, really, but he'd missed this kind of affectionate rough-housing, and it's sort of nice to get it. Shawzy's even more over-competitive about this kind of thing, which is funny in its own way, and Brandon's happy to hang out in his room nine times out of ten, but, well. Leddy's also good company when Brandon's quieter, or kind of homesick, or just generally out-of-sorts. They're developing the same sort of friendship he has with Tro, and when Brandon stops to think about it — which he doesn't do all that often, to be honest — it's just- it's nice.

"I win," Leddy says from above him, "The couch is mine, sucker."

Brandon shakes off the introspective moment, gets back to his feet — that's a lot easier on skates, oddly enough —and climbs right back on top of Leds. He can't shift him much, and there's only so many places he's comfortable trying to grab him, so when Leddy tries to buck him off again, Brandon winds up rolling the opposite way, and gets stuck between Leds and the back of the couch this time.

It's actually pretty comfortable, so Brandon wriggles up so he can still half see the TV from over the top of Leddy's head, and lets himself doze off like that. Leddy's weight feels good against him, pinning him in place, and that's probably something Brandon should examine more critically, but he's warm and sleepy and Leds will wake him up if anything exciting happens, anyway.

When he wakes up properly later there's a blanket draped over his shoulder, and Leddy's making a lot of noise in the kitchen, putting some kind of meal together for them. Brandon's stomach is reminding him he hasn't eaten nearly enough today, actually, so it's pretty simple to wander in and start helping, and just never really talk about it. They're just comfortable together, that's all. Leddy's nice, and Brandon likes hanging out with him. Nothing more to it.

* * *

Brandon thinks that Tro and Rossy had probably intended to have their trip out to see the IceHogs play be a surprise; it's the kind of thing Tro likes to do, but they'd both been so phenomenally obvious about looking forward to it that Brandon had been surprised when they were shocked that he _wasn't_ surprised.

"You put 'AHL roadie!!' on your instagram," he points out to Rossy, but he's even more irrepressible than Tro is sometimes, and just coos, "Aww, Saader's checking my insta. Maybe you're not a grandpa after all."

"Fuck off, Rossy, I'm not boring," Brandon argues, "And you're older than me, so there."

"Yeah, real mature," Trocheck says, sprawling out on the spare bed in Brandon's room. They're bunking in with him for the night, saving money and giving them a bit of extra time to catch up. Brandon knows exactly how not generous the per diem in junior hockey is; he also knows that for all the shit they give each other they're not going to fuck up his game day routines, or stop him getting enough sleep.

"Saader, you slept through that time Oleksiak's fucking phone alarm wouldn't stop beeping on the bus," Tro points out. "I'm still jealous, by the way."

Brandon shrugs. "It wasn't my alarm, so."

He wakes up for fire alarms, at least; they've proven that enough times, too, between people who can't use a toaster without setting the smoke detectors off and shitty hotels with bad wiring or ill-timed construction. Though probably nothing is going to be as funny as Jimmy hobbling out to the carpark at midnight wrapped in a towel and hastily-donned sneakers. Luckily it hadn't quite been cold enough for him to need to worry about getting frostbite anywhere unfortunate.

They've got a couple of hours to hang out before the game, and then after as well. Brandon talked to the guys at the front office and made sure he could get them good seats at least; the Hogs don't usually sell out or anything, but he'd figured it was better safe than sorry. They spend an hour or so just catching up in all the ways that group texts and hastily written emails don't entirely cover, reading each other to know what to push to ask about and what to avoid, and then Brandon falls down the metaphorical rabbit hole of going through every picture on Tro's phone from the Spirit's season so far, which is mostly a lot of teenage boys making faces or drinking things that are probably not just soda, or the aftermath of various spectacular injuries (skate cut, black eye, skate cut, a bruise the same shape as Texas; they'd all been kind of jealous of that one) or dumb pranks. And sometimes the middle parts of pranks, too; Brandon grabs the phone out of Tro's hands with no compunction whatsoever and forwards himself the pictures of the two of them wearing what he hopes was just cheap lingerie from Wal-Mart or somewhere, and not actually anything they'd stolen from their moms or girlfriends or whatever.

"The lace is really your color," he tells Tro solemnly, and Vince just gives him a beatific smile and says, "Fuck yeah it is."

Brandon really fucking missed them.

* * *

It's not a bad game, after that; they win, and while Brandon doesn't score — "Plenty of time for that later!" someone yells in the locker room, which Brandon just pretends not to hear — he at least picks up two points, and the secondary assist on the game-winner. Most of the guys are going out afterward, and Brandon lets them go on ahead while he tries to find Rossy and Tro in the crowd out front. Brandon's got an IceHogs cap pulled down over his face just in case, he doesn't really think anyone's going to recognize him, but he doesn't feel like dealing with anyone he doesn't know right then, so. He tracks them down eventually, talking animatedly by one of the entrances to the arena.

Tro greets him with a "what took you so long?" that Brandon defuses with the ease of long practice by just pointing out that maybe Vince should try growing if he wants to be more visible in a crowd. That earns him a punch to the arm, which of course just means then he has to switch to chirping Tro about his workouts.

"So, where do we get to party with the professionals, huh?" Rossy asks once they're done with that routine. Brandon checks his phone to make sure they haven't had a change of plans and then directs all three of them to the same place. He spends the time it takes to get there trying to give them a crash course on his teammates, or at least the ones they haven't either met before or played against in the OHL.

"I think Leds and some of the other guys wanted to hang out after, too," he adds, "And Shawzy probably wants to hear embarrassing stories, but you should probably make him buy you a drink first before you start making up horrifying shit to tell him." He knows his friends, thanks.

They walk in to the bar and Brandon just happens to be walking with Vince, instead of a few steps ahead or behind, which is the only reason he catches the completely bizarre reaction he has when they spot the crowd of hockey players around a big table, and Leds looks up to see them before waving them over. Vince stops dead for a second — Rossy walks into him, curses him out, and then looks up, then over at the table, back at Tro, and then pretty much laughs his ass off.

"Right??" Vince says — to Garret, not to Brandon, which, what? He's missing something here. "Wow, Saader, wow."

"What?" Brandon asks, a little annoyed, and also starting to seriously consider pretending he doesn't know them.

"Aw, man, he doesn't even know," Vince says, and he's basically cackling. Brandon's friends are the fucking worst, he's not sure why he's letting them meet each other. Brandon has a funny feeling that Shawzy, at least, would probably react exactly the same way to whatever is that's making Vince and Garret laugh like hyenas.

Much to his annoyance, he's proven correct almost immediately. They head over to the table, elbow their way in to find seats, and Brandon introduces Tro and Rossy; figures his teammates can just introduce themselves, he's not going to go the whole way around the table. Shawzy comes back over with a couple of drinks after they've settled, says, "Huh," when he sees Brandon, and then steals the plate in front of him before, as promised, grilling Tro for any blackmail material he can use against Brandon.

"I don't know why I hang out with any of you," Brandon says to them all, and pointedly turns back to talk to Leds instead.

There's enough of them to build up a fairly sizeable bill by the time they're done; with food and drinks on the tab, and there's good-natured arguing over who owes what, along with a collective inability to do even basic math after that much beer. Brandon's been casually handed enough drinks to be slightly buzzed, but not so much so he can't at least work out roughly who owes what, and after minimal complaining they manage to scrape approximately the right amount of cash out of everyone, although Brandon does wind up covering Rossy and Tro. They kick some cash in for the tip at least, so Brandon's complaining is mostly just for tradition's sake, and he points out that Rossy's going to owe him next year if they're all still in Rockford then, too.

Obviously, he hopes that they won't be, but who fucking knows, they'd lost a year to the lockout last time and this doesn't look like it's gonna be over any time soon.

"C'mon Saader," Tro says, lurking over his shoulder while he's saying goodnight to a few of the other guys, "We spent fucking six hours crammed in the back seat of a car, take me somewhere with a real bed already."

"You guys are sharing," Brandon warns them again; it's his room, he gets to make up the rules. And Tro's feet are always cold, if Brandon can make that someone else's problem then he totally is.

"Video games and pizza tomorrow, yeah?" Leds asks, hanging back, despite the fact that Clendo and Shawzy are both waiting in the doorway for him, with varying degrees of patience.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Brandon says, shooting him a quick grin. "Bring whatever, that sounds good."

"Great," Leds says, and then he heads out as well.

"You didn't tell anyone Rossy cheats like a motherfucker at Mario Kart, right?" Tro asks, after exchanging a speaking look with Rossy. Brandon can't translate it, and that feels— weird and a little painful, actually. He's not used to being on the outside of anything with them, and it's unsettling to see that evidence of how things have changed for them, that they're not exactly the same people they've always been any more. It's not the first time that's happened to Brandon; he's spent enough time moving around, making friends and meeting new people, and he's in touch with a lot of them still, but— it's always a bit of a shock, even when he's expecting it. He's not sure why he thought it'd be any different with Vince, but he had, a little.

"It's more fun to let them find out the hard way," Brandon says after a second, and then he and Tro fist-bump, because some things don't change, and watching other people lose their shit over getting a total beat-down at video games is funny as fuck. Rossy tries to claim it's not really magic, but since he'll admit that he's cheating and Brandon still hasn't quite worked out how, that doesn't exactly leave many other options. "Feel free to see who's dumb enough to put money on it, too."

"Saader," Vince says, cheerfully, "I love it when you do this super villain shit. But also, I'm gonna pass out in like five minutes so unless you want to carry me up the stairs—" "Never again," Rossy interrupts, with a shudder, even though Brandon had been the one who'd had to basically carry Tro up a flight of stairs bridal-style, with Rossy just lurking behind to try and stop them all from falling to their deaths.

"Okay," Brandon says, giving in, and going to hail a cab. "We're going, we're going."

* * *

Brandon sleeps hard, much the same as he always does after a game, and he sleeps right through Trocheck and Ross waking up, showering and apparently spending fifteen minutes sending increasingly filthy texts to his phone - on the nightstand charging, but also on silent - before they give up on subtlety and just jump on him.

Brandon flails into wakefulness with Rossy sprawled over his legs and stomach making it hard to breathe, and Tro bouncing along his side, hand poised to go for his hair.

"Fuck off," Brandon yelps, and shoves Tro back onto his ass, but Rossy's solidly in position, and Brandon can't even sit up yet.

"I'd almost forgotten how fucking much you sleep, man," Tro says, from the floor beside the bed, hasn't bothered to even pick himself up yet. He can chirp Brandon just fine from down there, apparently.

"What time is it?" Brandon asks, picking a battle he actually has a chance of winning.

"It's after 9," Rossy says. "Come on, we're starving."

"You didn't even do anything yesterday," Brandon points out.

"Six. Hours." Tro says again significantly. "In the back seat. The very small back seat. With a baby."

"What are you complaining about?" Brandon asks. "You're basically pocket-sized, I bet there was plenty of room."

"You're like two inches taller," Tro complains, on script for the same argument they've had a hundred times in like twenty different cities. It's comfortingly familiar, in some ways.

"More like four," Brandon corrects. "Sorry to your inferiority complex."

"Bullshit," Tro says, warming to the bit, but Rossy interrupts, prods Brandon hard in the stomach and says, "Breakfast?" so mournfully that even Brandon doesn't have the heart to tell him to just fucking wait.

"Fine," Brandon says, and then, "But I can't get up until you get off."

"That's what she said," Rossy shoots back, but scrambles off Brandon's quilt and safely back to the other bed before Brandon can try to get him in a headlock.

They go out for breakfast, because Brandon doesn't have a whole lot around, and it's just easier. After working their way through a pile of food they go back to Brandon's room and shoot the shit some more, whiling away the hours till it hits midday and some of the guys start turning up, trickling in with snacks and beer. Brandon orders pizza, because if he doesn't do it then they'll forget until they're all starving.

There's only about eight or nine guys crammed into the apartment in the end, just the ones who were young enough or single enough or just plain bored enough to spend an off day with their teammates instead of having anything better to do.

Brandon watches Rossy destroy both Shawzy and Pirri, and he's in the middle of taking Morin down — with Hutts and Tro close on his heels, at least — when Brandon decides that it's about time he gets a drink, too. He wanders back into the kitchen, fishes a beer out of the fridge and he's digging through the drawer for the opener — why no one could just leave it on the counter he doesn't know — when Leds wanders in.

"Drink?" Brandon asks, offering automatically.

"Sure," Leddy says, leaning on the counter and watching as Brandon yanks the fridge door open again, biting back a curse as it sticks around the edges where the seal's starting to go. "Your friends are nice," he adds, as Brandon comes back to hand him the bottle. His fingers skid a little in the condensation beading around the label, and Brandon has to steady it for him. Their fingers brush, and Nick starts obviously, pulling his hand back like he's been burned, nearly dropping the bottle.

"Uh, sorry?" Brandon says, frowning.

Leddy takes a half step back and then puts his beer on the counter, still waiting for Brandon to turn up the bottle opener.

"Nah, it's okay." Leddy says. "Static shock, you know. Guess my socks on the carpet built it up or whatever."

"Right," Brandon says, with vague memories of high school physics. He finds the bottle opener finally, hands it to Leds first and then waits before cracking the lid off his own next. "Guess we should get back and see whether Mo's sold his soul to Rossy yet, or whatever."

"Mmm," Leddy says, "I'll just be a sec, okay."

"Sure thing," Brandon says, and heads back into the living room, where he perches on the arm of the couch, swinging his legs up off the floor and into Tro's lap just out of habit. On the TV, Rossy's doing a victory lap with Princess Peach, while Mo looks like he's seriously considering throwing his controller. Brandon doesn't think he's in all that much danger of doing so; Mo gets hot fast but cools off again just as quick, and it's while he's having that thought that Leds comes back into the room at last, a second bottle between thumb and forefinger, and he holds that out to Morin wordlessly.

"Thanks, man," Morin says to him, and then, "I hope Leds kicks your ass," which is either to Rossy — which would make sense — or to Brandon, which, huh? Brandon's friends are just weird sometimes.

Whatever complicated system they've all worked out as to whose turn it is next apparently means that Tro and Hutts are out, and he and Leds are in to replace them. Brandon takes the controller from Tro; he's right here and it's easy enough, means he doesn't have to move to see the TV. He flips the character selection back to Bowser; Tro always likes Dry Bones, but Brandon likes to have a bit more weight to throw around, especially if they're racing on the bikes. It's probably not a metaphor for their friendship, he thinks, not for the first time.

On the screen, Nick and Rossy have selected their characters already too, just waiting on Hutts who's too busy trying to see if he can steal Shawzy's beer without him noticing to remember to hit the select button. Mo just leans over and hits the A for him, right before Brandon can open his mouth to tell him to get it together.

"Thanks, Mo," Hutts says, taking a swig of Shawzy's beer before handing it back to him, and ignoring his indignant protests.

"Just go get another one, Shawzy," Brandon suggests, not looking away from the screen. He's not falling for any of this distraction stuff. He'd like to at least come in second. "Alternatively, he probably doesn't have cooties."

"You don't know where he's been," Shawzy says darkly, about the same time that Smitty says, "And also you're not in elementary school," which if nothing else just proves there's two kinds of people in the world.

The flag drops then, so Brandon stops listening to their good-natured argument, leaning forward as if that'll help his character go faster. Naturally, Rossy's shot out ahead right from the start, but Brandon's managing to hold on to second for at least half of the first lap. There's a speed-bullet blur past him, then, and when he flicks his gaze over the other parts of the screen he can see that it's one of them and not an NPC, though he's not sure if it's Leds or Hutts. The whoop from Morin as the little 2 in the corner of the screen flicks to a 1, plus the way he can see in his peripheral vision as Mo nudges Leds approvingly with his foot gives away who it is, even as Rossy yelps, "Hey, what? Oh, it is _on_."

Brandon blinks, and then realizes that his bike has drifted off the path while he wasn't paying total attention, and before he can course correct his character topples over a cliff and he has to wait for it to regenerate. By the time he gets moving again - trying to ignore everyone else, this time - he's all the way back in 8th, but from the increasingly loud trash-talking that's coming from the other half of the room it sounds like the lead is going back and forth between Leds and Rossy. Apparently they're a really close match.

By the time the pizza arrives Rossy's mostly ahead in the tournament, but Leds has managed to beat him twice, which Brandon thinks might actually be a first. He and Tro exchange a look the first time, but Rossy's a good enough sport to just keep it to trash-talk.

"At least it's not air hockey," Brandon mutters, and he and Tro both snicker for long minutes while everyone else ignores them. Brandon doesn't mind; the 'and then Rossy gestured so violently his paddle flew over the table and rolled down two flights of stairs' thing was hysterical but also pretty much the textbook definition of 'you had to be there'.

The pizza vanishes faster than Brandon would think possible if he hadn't been feeding hockey players for years now, and he figures that he can probably manage one more beer without doing too much damage to his nutritional plan, especially since there's no more temptation in the form of the double pepperoni pizza left. This time, Leddy's in the kitchen already when Brandon rounds the corner, running his hand along the counter, lost in thought.

"Oh, hey," Leds says, shutting the fridge in a hurry.

He's finishing up a bottle of something that looks imported, or at least significantly more expensive than any of the beer Brandon had knocking around or that anyone had turned up with. Brandon shrugs mentally; if Leds isn't sharing that's fine, whatever. Brandon's fine with Bud light if it's all that's going.

"Nice going knocking Rossy off his throne," Brandon says, giving Leddy a quick grin. "You'll keep him humble, it's good for him."

"Uh, yeah," Leddy says, a little stilted. Brandon's not sure why, just notices that he's tapping his fingers on the neck of the bottle, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands or with it.

"Oh, I think Clendo was going to take a bunch of recycling tomorrow," Brandon says. "Just dump it in that bag with everything else, yeah? He owes me one."

"What?" Leds says, blinking at him. Either he's drunker than Brandon thought — in which case, he's making sure he takes his keys — or he's totally off in another world.

"Your bottle," Brandon says slowly, raising an eyebrow. He tilts his head back to take a swig of his beer, and when he straightens up again Leds is giving him the weirdest look; it makes him- nervous. No, not nervous. Unsettled. That's not quite right either, not really, but Brandon doesn't want to dwell on it now. He's got video games to play and friends he doesn't see nearly often enough anymore visiting, he can just ignore whatever it was that was making Leds stare at him until later.

"Oh, right," Leddy says, too late to be thoroughly convincing. Brandon's not going to call him on it, though. "Thanks, Saader."

He drops the bottle into the half-filled paper Trader Joe's bag they've been using as a makeshift recycling bag, and then scans the counter, picks up a couple more empties that have been left unattended and dumps them in the bag, too. Brandon noticed early on that Nick's usually one of the guys who helps clean up after they do anything, quietly efficient without making a big deal about it. Brandon appreciates it.

* * *

As they get ever closer to the new year, Brandon starts to settle into Rockford, gets more confident about his place with the IceHogs. They get roped into doing a ridiculous holiday video for the website, although Brandon's part is at least one of the less embarrassing ones. Andy hams it up for his part alarmingly well, and Brandon laughs for five minutes straight the first time he sees that bit.

He keeps spending most of his free time with a couple of the guys; hanging out with Leds and Shawzy, or with Pirri and Morin, and Smitty's usually around too; he's quiet but always worth listening to, Brandon's found. Maybe because he's that little bit older, although Brandon suspects that it's just how Smitty is. Brandon's a fairly quiet guy himself, most of the time; knows he tends to hang back and observe rather than jumping in head first when it comes to off-ice stuff.

They get to January and then all of a sudden, after months of absolutely glacial progress, things are happening. Brandon's glued to his phone when it looks like maybe this round of talks between the NHL and the PA might see an end-point, and it's almost anti-climactic when they do; Ference's tweet the start of a landslide of information and confirmations as the breaking news hits a hundred different websites at the same time. The IceHogs are about to start a road trip, but now they're getting told potential dates for training camp, and as Brandon looks across the locker room and catches Leddy's eye he can't help but hope that this means they'll all get a chance in the show.

The training camp invites go out to pretty much exactly the guys Brandon would've guessed would get them, and almost before he can blink they're done with training camp and into actual games, and he's still in Chicago, staying up, making a place for himself in the roster.

If the schedule in the AHL had been brutal, the post-lockout schedule, trying to cram in 48 games before they get too close to real summer… Brandon doesn't even have words for how tired he is, after a while. The travel is better, mostly, and the amenities are certainly better — and obviously Brandon's not going to complain about the better pay, either — but it's the most exhausting thing Brandon's ever done. They're playing almost every other day most of the time, and it's not like he isn't well aware that they're winning more than they're losing, but it honestly takes Brandon till about game ten, when the media starts really getting over the top, to actually begin to comprehend the start they're having.

"This is fucking nuts," he says to Leds on one of their rare off days, sprawled out on the couch at Shawzy and Leds' apartment, pretending like he's not letting the dogs lick his hands while they beg for treats. So he's kind of a soft touch.

"They're very normal dogs," Leddy says, looking amused. "You give them enough treats, they start expecting it. And Shawzy spoils them, too." Not like Nick's one to talk, really; Brandon's seen him spoil them just as much. They're all totally indulgent, god help them all if and whenever Shawzy and Chaunette decide to have an actual tiny human as well.

"Not that, you dick," Brandon says. "Just, this." He waves his arm in a gesture that's meant to encompass the city, or at least the team, and what they're doing. "I mean, blah blah don't buy into the media and all that, but. I've never played on a team that's had a run like this."

On the one hand, that makes sense; of course they're doing well, they've distilled down the very best talent available to actually make it to the NHL, they should all be fucking good at their jobs. On the other hand, that should also mean it's a bit more of a level playing field, but right now the Hawks are well and truly tilting the ice more than they're not. It's fun as hell, but Brandon doesn't want to let himself trust it blindly.

Leddy shrugs at him. "Me either, I guess."

Brandon narrows his eyes at him. "Didn't your high school team win, like, all but two games your senior year?"

Leddy goes faintly pink, just a little, enough that Brandon thinks most people wouldn't notice. "We lost three," he says, and Brandon snorts, because that's basically what he said. "And where did you hear that, anyway?"

Brandon's honestly not sure. "I dunno, you must've said some time?"

"Huh," Leddy says, humming a little, his lips pressed together, but he doesn't say anything else.

Char wriggles in Brandon's lap then, and nearly manages to roll off the couch, so he has to grab her collar to save her, which distracts him long enough that he doesn't notice that Leddy's got up a few seconds ago. Brandon can hear thumping noises in the kitchen; the unmistakable noise of the fridge door opening, a glass being set down on the counter.

"Hey, bring me something?" Brandon yells, pitching his voice to carry into the kitchen. It's not like Leds to not offer in the first place, but if he's anywhere near as worn out as Brandon is then forgetting is entirely understandable. And sure, Brandon could just get up himself, but Leds is already in there.

"Tea?" Leddy calls back.

"Yeah," Brandon says, and tries to shuffle around so that he can reach the end table without disturbing the dogs too much.

"You're such a sap," Leddy says, coming back in to the living room and handing Brandon a mug. Steam's rising off it, and it feels good just to wrap his hands around it and breathe it in.

"Thanks," Brandon says, choosing to just not bother arguing. "Hey, where's yours?"

"Oh," Leddy says, "Finished it already while yours was steeping." His face is ever so slightly flushed, he really has to have bolted it to be overheated like that.

"Wanna watch a movie or something?" Brandon asks, looking down at his drink. He needs to stop staring at Leds for no reason. Just because he's tired is no reason to start acting weird.

"Yeah, sure, we can see what's on." Leddy says, leaning in to the middle of the couch to dig the remote out from between the cushions. He doesn't bother shifting back to the other end of the couch where he'd started out, though, just stays in the middle of the couch, his knee pressing warmly against Brandon's.

They don't really have to scroll far through the on-demand movies before hitting the A-Team, which Brandon's half-watched on a bus at some point but wouldn't mind seeing again. Before he can even say as much, Leds makes an inquiring noise when the cursor hovers over it, looking over to see what Brandon thinks.

"Sounds good," Brandon agrees, letting himself relax back into the couch. Leddy usually seems to like anything Bradley Cooper's in, too, so Brandon's not worried he's going to wind up channel-surfing away halfway through. He does fall asleep half an hour later, although that's probably got more to do with last night's OT loss than it does the movie.

Brandon's comfortable enough, even as Leds tilts into him, head heavy against Brandon's shoulder. He's warm enough, and he's not all elbows like Tro used to be, so Brandon doesn't bother shoving him away, or waking him up. He clearly needs the nap, it's fine. Brandon puts his feet up on the coffee table and lets himself concentrate on how they're all going to escape from their respective prisons.

* * *

They're on the road for the Super Bowl, holed up in a lounge in their San Jose hotel to watch, with snacks at hand and the whole day off. Brandon's on one couch with Leds, cheerfully arguing back and forth who they think should take it. Brandon doesn't exactly have a horse in this race, but for the sake of the Steelers' record at least he's band-wagoning the Ravens. Leddy's pulling for the Niners, who he claims to have been cheering for all season, although Brandon's pretty sure there's some kind of bet that's actually behind it; he's seen the ratty old Vikings shirt Leds wears to work out in sometimes, thanks. If nothing else, he's enjoying the opportunity to chirp the hell out of Brandon, especially once the Niners start clawing back the lead some.

They're cheerfully arguing over who should get up at the next break in play to refill the bowl of pretzels that Leddy had grabbed during the half-time show when Brandon notices the BHTV guys wandering around. He shrugs to himself and makes a mental note not to swear out loud, although the Ravens are at least hanging on to the lead so far. Toews throws himself down on the couch between them when there's about ten minutes left on the clock and demands they share; Brandon figures that's the better part of valor and all that and just hands the pretzels over without complaining. It's not like Tazer actually pulls rank all that often, Brandon can do without the last few just fine.

Brandon's only a little smug when Baltimore sticks it out for the win, high-fiving Crow and Bicks who'd been sitting behind the couch, and he can't say he wasn't expecting it at least a little when Leds calls him a dick and tackles him into the couch. He gets a face-full of pretzel crumbs from the cushion, but Leddy lets him up almost right away, laughing his ass off, which is how Brandon also finds out apparently some of them have stuck to his face.

Playing professionally as an actual adult seems to be awfully similar to just playing junior hockey so far, Brandon has to admit.

* * *

Their point streak goes all the way to the mid-point of the season before they implode in spectacular fashion, going down in a blowout to the Avs, of all teams. Brandon hates the fact they've finally looked mortal, and as if to reinforce that they do go into a bit of a tail-spin shortly afterward, too, but the season's short enough that making the playoffs at least isn't really ever in doubt.

The blowout win against the Stars in Dallas a week later helps make them feel like they're back on track, at least. Brandon has two assists in the first few minutes, and it feels like so does half the team. They're a happy group as they head over the boards to congratulate Crow, and Brandon catches himself humming as he strips out of his pads and peels off sweaty underarmour.

Even in a visitors locker room Brandon's stall is still in the middle of half the defensemen, so he doesn't have to go far to catch Leddy's gaze. Leddy's grinning like he's forgotten how to do anything else, clearly pleased with himself, and Brandon can't blame him.

"Not bad, Ledpipe," Brandon says to him, giving him a solid punch to the upper arm. Two assists and a goal would normally be enough to earn him a place on the three stars; with the night the whole team has had he's probably an unofficial fourth, given that half the roster had a multipoint night.

"Cleaning up the garbage," Leds nods, still grinning, before licking his lips absently. A tiny frown creases his forehead then, and he rubs his hand over his mouth thoughtfully, clearly just moving on automatic, and Brandon cracks up laughing at the disgusted face he makes next. He'd clearly forgotten he'd only just taken his gloves off, and before showering that's pretty much the equivalent of face-washing yourself.

"Yeah, you could say that, Leds," Brandon says, tossing him a mini bottle of mouthwash from his bag. It'll be faster than trying to brush his teeth in the shower, at least.

"Thanks, Saader," Leddy says, and then a minute later, "What the hell are you humming, any way?"

Brandon squints at him, blanking for a moment until he can sing the melody ahead silently and hits the chorus. "You Can Call Me Al?"

"What's that, Billy Joel?"

Brandon gives him a scandalized look that, for once, is actually 100% sincere. "Leds. That's Simon and Garfunkel. How do you get them mixed up with Billy Joel?"

"So what you're saying is it's nothing from this century," Leds says, raising one eyebrow in the way he tends to when he wants to make sure Brandon knows he's joking. Brandon doesn't really need the hint, he can pretty much tell Leddy's sarcastic voice apart from his regular one just fine, thanks, no matter what Shawzy might say sometimes.

"Billy Joel is a fucking legend of our time, you dick," Brandon says. "And so are Simon and Garfunkel."

"Do you have to dye the gray out of your beard?" Leddy asks him, tilting his head to one side as if he's considering the matter seriously.

"Oh, fuck off, at least I can grow a beard." Brandon's more than a little smug about that, actually. They hadn't had much chance last year, but he'd at least looked better than a lot of the other guys.

"Yeah, that chirp only works on, like, Stals and Shawzy," Leddy says, looking completely unperturbed. Okay, yeah, that wasn't one of Brandon's better comebacks.

He's still scanning for a better one as they both head to the showers, arguing cheerfully all the while.

Leds is mostly a country music kind of guy — not that there's anything wrong with that, Brandon assures him with a grin — and so the argument falls apart pretty fast; they just don't have enough common ground to really get any good digs in, though Brandon will probably do a little research the next time he's got an off day. He likes new things, and Leddy's taste in most things is decent, so. By the time Brandon steps under the water spraying from the shower head they've moved onto cheerfully ragging on each other's stats.

"I'm ahead in assists," Leddy says, stepping closer, all the better to actually hear each other over everyone else's cheerful discussions — although, sure, whatever it is Shawzy's doing could probably be better described as 'whooping'. Brandon's not volunteering to distract him on the bus tonight, that's for sure. _Sorry about your life, Boller,_ he thinks.

"I tied you in the third," Brandon argues, and then adds, "hey, shove over a bit," because if he's going to wash his hair properly — even if the shampoo and soap the league mandates be provided is basically the cheapest and shittiest, he'd rather at least get most of the grime off now — he needs to actually get under more of the spray. Leddy's kind of hogging it.

"Sure, sure," Leddy says. "Whatever helps you feel better, Saader."

Brandon squints at him, and then yelps as he manages to get soap in his eyes. That'll show him for not paying attention properly.

"Instant karma," Leddy says smugly, and bumps Brandon's hip with his own so he can get square under the shower spray again. He rolls his shoulders a few times in the hot water, stretching out lazily, catlike. Brandon should maybe have spent a little longer on the bike cooling down, he's feeling a little tense again.

"First one to ten buys lunch?" Brandon suggests. It's a little unfair, maybe; he plays forward and Leddy's on D, but Leddy's also got a full extra year's experience on Brandon; he's not a rookie and he gets power-play time. It probably evens out.

"Why not dinner?" Leddy asks, "Think you're gonna lose?"

"Fine, dinner," Brandon says. "Hey, Sharpy, where did you say the best steak in town was, again?"

Brandon looks over his shoulder to catch Sharpy's attention, and pauses for a second, because Sharpy's giving him a weird look, too. "What?" he asks.

Sharpy just shakes his head, mutters something that Brandon can't make out over the sound of the water, and then pitches his voice so that Brandon can actually hear him, says "Well, Abby likes Bavette's." He pauses for a second, and then adds, "Or Joe's is good, too."

Leddy's giving Sharpy a look that Brandon can't read either, he's clearly missing something here, although he can't tell if it's a 'prank the rookie' thing or just the two of them being more familiar with Chicago.

"You're on," Leddy says to him, though, and then steps past him to grab a towel and start drying off.

"Deal," Brandon says, and goes to retrieve his own towel.

* * *

Brandon doesn't have much to compare it with, obviously, but from stuff the other guys on the team have been saying it seems like the team's been giving them a bit of a break on all the PR stuff they'd usually do. There's been a couple hospital visits, that kind of thing, and Brandon's more than happy to do those, but they at least have been spared having to do many of the sort of goofy pre-recorded video clips that usually get put up on the website or whatever.

They do still have some clips to do, the video guys stealing them away in groups of four or five at a time when they're done their off-ice workouts, and it's apparently the stuff that's going to get played on the scoreboard between whistles, apparently they want to mix some new stuff in to the ones Brandon remembers recording in the middle of training camp.

They ask them all a bunch of pretty standard questions for the Blackhawks magazine — Brandon's not a morning person, he prefers tea to coffee, that kind of thing — and then shift onto basically making them pick teammates for all kinds of things.

Some of it's a gimme — if anyone doesn't pick Shawzy for 'the one who needs to shut up sometimes', well, Brandon would be pretty surprised. Even Shawzy picks himself for that one. There's a couple sort of embarrassing ones; Smitty turns out to be the frequent pick for 'teammate I'd let my sister date', although Brandon stutters his way through that one — apparently 'I don't have a sister?' isn't a helpful response — and manages to avoid answering it at all. They don't use any of his footage for that one, in the end, which he's a little relieved about. Adam informs him later that the team was pretty much split on whether the biggest dork was him or Leds, which: thanks for that, guys.

You tell one person you play keyboard sometimes as a hobby and somehow the whole team knows about it.

* * *

It feels like they've hardly started before they're hitting the end of the season; still in line for the President's Trophy, which is kind of cool, even if it's obviously not, like, the goal. Brandon's settled into his own place by that point; after Rockford he's more than ready to get some of his own space. Sharing with teammates is fine and all, but he's been doing that for years, and the hotel they were living in at the start of the season in Chicago had got old fast.

Some of the guys give him shit for not getting a roommate — asking who's going to get him up in the mornings, and whether he really wants to cook for himself all the time, and then they move on to joking about whether he has a secret identity he needs to hide, which, ha ha, as if any of them have time for anything like that — but honestly, he's just looking forward to having the space and a little bit more quiet. It helps, especially as the stakes get higher and their games don't get any easier; having somewhere he can actually relax and, yeah, play his keyboard a little sometimes — thanks, mom and dad — is pretty great.

He gets a place that's already furnished, means he doesn't need to worry about picking out furniture or doing anything more complicated than buying a new bed. He has to ask the doorman to let the delivery guys in because they'll be on the road but that's fine, that's why he picked an apartment building with good security, and he makes sure to give the guy a really good tip. He maybe does some stress baking as well as they get closer to May, and drops cookies off with his neighbors and the building staff as well, a thank you for putting up with his occasional late nights — though he's pretty careful to be quiet coming in — and the keyboard.

"At least you don't play the drums, dear," Mrs Allan down the hall tells him, and laughs with him when he has to concede that very good point. No one seems to mind, or at least they haven't complained to him or the building management.

It's close to Leds and Shawzy's place as well, which is good; walking distance when the weather's not bad and a quick cab ride if it's terrible, although Brandon's been tempted to just stay over once or twice when late night movies have gotten a little too late, especially when a beer or three come into play.

They don't have a spare room set up, and Brandon had been more than ready to just stretch out on the sofa with a couple blankets. It's a very nice sofa, and Leds and Shawzy had clearly spent enough to get one that's long enough for even Brandon — or, he guesses, given the residents of the apartment, Leds — to stretch out in full. It's new and well-sprung and Brandon's pretty sure he'll sleep just as well as he does in his own bed, but after Shawzy and Chaunette have gone to bed Leddy comes back out with a spare pillow in his hands.

He doesn't hand it over when Brandon reaches out to take it, though. His grip tightens where he's holding it and he doesn't quite make eye contact with Brandon before saying, "Uh, you shouldn't— the couch isn't that great to sleep on, actually."

"Don't you nap there, like, every other day?" Brandon asks, not sure where Leddy's going with this.

They'd had a drink or two with dinner, but nothing that should really be impairing anyone's judgment, it's just sheer inertia that has Brandon picking not to bother going home; he could absolutely easily just get a cab still if Leddy would rather not have him sleep on the couch after all.

Leddy shrugs. "You can take my room, I can sleep on the couch."

Brandon raises an eyebrow. "Leds. If the couch is that bad then I'm not going to make you suffer through it either, come on. I can just—"

He cuts himself off there as Leddy drops heavily down onto the couch beside him, radiating stubbornness. His thigh is warm against Brandon's for a moment; pressure and solid muscle, before he shifts, slowly but surely shoving Brandon off the upholstery.

"Goodnight, Saader," Leddy says firmly, and digs his toes into the side of Brandon's knee in a more direct attempt at tipping him up and off the couch. He stuffs the pillow under his own head as he starts to stretch out on the couch, shaking out the blanket so it covers him from waist to knees.

"Gotta be the hero, huh," Brandon says, but it's clear he's not going to win this one, so he reaches over to pat the side of Leddy's foot. "Thanks, Leds."

Brandon levers himself to his feet and heads to Leddy's room as instructed. He doesn't look back at the couch, but he can hear the springs creak as Leddy settles more comfortably, rearranges the blankets. The lamp by the bed is on in Leds' room, and the blankets are turned down, rumpled just enough that Brandon can tell he'd just remade the bed a few minutes ago rather than having it neatly made up in the morning. It's kind of nice to see that clearly Leds is about as accomplished at housekeeping as Brandon is; sometimes he feels like he's barely keeping his head above water while everyone else knows what they're doing already, and this— helps.

He feels awkward for a few minutes after curling up in the bed; it can't be because it's an unfamiliar bed, because Brandon spends half his life sleeping in hotel beds, and at least this one is long enough, and not nearly as too-soft as half the hotels they stay in. But all the same, something feels off, or just the slightest bit out of place, and Brandon shivers despite the blankets. The vague uneasiness is no competition for years of habit, though; he falls asleep pretty quickly after telling himself not to worry about it then, and when he wakes up the next morning — wandering barefoot and half-dressed in to the kitchen after Leds' alarm goes off and hoping that Shawzy has some kind of decent breakfast food — he can assure Leds with perfect honesty that he slept great, thanks.

* * *

The post-season is a rush and a thrill like nothing Brandon's ever felt before. He'd thought he understood what he was in for after last time, even with going out in six against the Yotes, but hitting the post-season right on the heels of a full season — thirty-some games in Rockford, and then the full compressed season in the NHL — that's all new, and he's pretty sure he gets through the entire series against the Wild on adrenaline alone.

If Brandon crashes kinda hard after that and knows he's struggling when they face the Red Wings next, at least he's not alone. Or, actually, that's the worst part: all of them — except maybe Crow, who sure as hell deserves a better team in front of him than he's had for the last few games — are hitting a slump at the worst possible time. Every time Brandon thinks they're about to pull out of it, the bounces starting to go their way… well, he's been proven wrong a few times now, and then there they are, the President's Trophy winners facing down an elimination game in the second round.

Finally, finally they start to get it together then, scraping a second win, and then a third, and then game seven, tied all the way on the scoreboard, although Tazer does persist in snarkily referring to it as a 3-1 overtime win any time there isn't a journalist or NHL official in earshot to catch him complaining about the call.

They've been in hotels in Chicago as well as on the road since the first round; Brandon hadn't really experienced that last time, but apparently it's normal. They'd lucked out with travel in the first two rounds for sure, but they're paying for that in spades now with the flight to California ahead of them in the conference finals. Brandon thinks he's forgotten what his apartment even looks like at this point, completely over-written by the bizarrely similar hotel rooms in every city they work in. He takes to keeping his room number on his phone and written on the back of his wrist sometimes, under his watch where Shawzy won't notice and chirp him for it. Not that he should, since Brandon's had to text him their room number at least three times when he's forgotten, too.

Brandon gets caught up in the ever-evolving Mario Kart tournament that is apparently the Blackhawks' particular obsession to blow off steam during the post-season. Tazer gets hilariously over-competitive about it, but the real battle's between Hammer — who's stealthily good and always handy with a blue shell — and Shawzy, who gets all quiet and determined and only occasionally explodes into motion. Brandon had to sit on him at least once when he'd gotten pissed at someone over what was possibly, technically cheating, although Brandon would've just called it "taking an educated advantage". Brandon's solidly in the middle of the pack in both overall ranking and skill level, and so's Leds, which he thinks is weird at first, remembering how he'd beaten Rossy. But maybe that was a fluke, or something, because whenever they're huddled in chairs around one of the big flat screens in the lounge set aside for them all Leds never comes in better than 3rd, cheerfully yelling at the screen to speed up, or corner better, or making extremely detailed threats about what he'll do to the next person to drop a banana in front of him.

"Oops, sorry Leds," Brandon says cheerfully, steering Bowser around Dry Bones. "Guess my hand slipped?"

"You're a dick," Leds informs him, and gives him a friendly punch in the thigh that nonetheless stings for a second and then does bruise, ever so faintly, when Brandon's looking at himself in the shower the next morning. Maybe Leds got him right over a bruise from a puck, or something. He hadn't actually hit him all that hard, really; Brandon's had worse from Shawzy when they've been fighting over the remote in their hotel room, or from George when they've been wrestling just for the hell of it. He rubs the bruise thoughtfully for a second longer, and then reminds himself to focus on the Kings and what they need to do against them. And, you know, on washing his hair and getting out of the shower some time that century. Before Shawzy starts pounding on the door, definitely, anyway.

It's no one's business but his if he takes a longer-than-usual shower and jerks off. He's tense, it's been a long month, they've got another game at home to go before heading out to LA, and Brandon wants to make sure he's in the best possible frame of mind to deal with it. It doesn't usually take him long to get off anyway; one of the benefits of having been living with billets and teammates and on the road since he was about fifteen is being very efficient when it comes to jerking off discreetly. He's come a long way from trying to get off after lights out and hoping Tro won't notice. Or say anything.

He's also got a lot better at not thinking about his presumably straight teammates when he gets himself off; that way lies a lot of stuttering and blushing and hoping Rossy doesn't get called up in time to witness it. Since he'd recognize it. And Brandon doesn't think he's going to get lucky enough to find a not-actually-that-straight teammate who's interested back any time soon; he's still pretty sure that the six months of hooking up with Tro was a complete fluke in that regard, and he's not going to be that lucky _twice_.

They'd at least been friends first and foremost, and it hadn't been much more than casual sex, an easy hookup with someone who was always going to like you after. Brandon had made a couple jokes about still respecting Vince in the morning, too, admittedly, but after a while that seemed kind of shitty so he'd quit that. And then a month later Vince had rolled over, sweaty and grinning, dick just starting to go soft after Brandon had sucked him off, and said, "Hey, so I hate to hit it and quit it, but—" and cheerfully broken off their friends-with-benefits arrangement.

Well. Suggested breaking it off, as soon as Brandon could get it up again to fuck him one last time, for old times' sake, or something like that.

Brandon wasn't exactly going to argue getting his dick wet with someone who was into pretty much everything he was, and he was uncomfortably aware that if that had gone on much longer he probably would've started having more-than-friendly feelings anyway, so it was probably for the best that Tro had met someone he wanted to actually date, and not just get conveniently laid with on the regular.

If nothing else, it makes for a really convenient fall-back fantasy; a clear and three-dimensional memory, Vince spread out on Brandon's bed, face down on the sheets, skin pale from knees to shoulders, the remnants of a really dumb farmers tan on his calves and forearms. Vince, squirming and making pleased noises as Brandon pushed one, and then two, and then three fingers inside him; stretching and teasing, until Vince was pushing back against his hand, cursing him out and begging for more, harder, faster. Brandon's memory fast-forwards the next bit, skimming over the practicalities of finding a condom and getting it on while Tro tells him to hurry the fuck up already. The next clearest part is remembering how it felt to push inside, overwhelmingly hot, Vince's body yielding easily to Brandon in a way that he never did any other time.

That thought makes Brandon tighten his grip on his dick, slippery with the hotel conditioner that Brandon was pretty sure neither he nor Andy was going to actually use for its intended purpose. It feels good to touch himself like this, relentless enough that he knows he's going to come any second, good enough even if it's not nearly as good as sex with someone else, and Brandon lets himself imagine it again; the familiar curve of his back and shoulders, the nape of his neck, dark hair starting to streak with sweat as Brandon fucks into him, hands tight on his hips, his whole body buzzing with it. And then Brandon could get a hand on his dick as well, give him something to thrust against, enjoy the noises Leds would make—

Brandon freezes for a split-second, but it's too late; he can apparently imagine that perfectly clearly, and more than adequately to get himself off, coming hard under the pinprick sharp spray of the shower before he gets his hand off his dick — too little too late — and lets his head thump gently into the side of the shower door. Fuck. _Fuck._

He'd been so sure he had this under control. Talk about the equivalent of a Freudian slip, and almost as if to really bring home the lesson then his foot skids a little where the conditioner's washed off onto the tiles, making them slippery for a long minute before all the residue washes off and down the drain. Forget it, he tells himself ruthlessly. Just— fucking forget it already.

* * *

They drop one game in LA, win the fourth, and come back to Chicago with the chance to clinch at home, going back to the Cup Final for the second time in three years. Brandon has trouble sleeping the night before game 5, for the first time in years. He's a rookie and if they can just win one more game, he'll be playing the Stanley Cup Final before he's even legally allowed to drink.

By the next morning, Brandon's feeling good about the game; not over-confident, but confident enough, looking forward to the challenge. The Kings feel like a familiar opponent by now, and Brandon feels like they've got this one, they're going to do it, they've got all the pieces. It's looking pretty good to start, too, and then improbably the Kings manage to start clawing back goals, and Richards' tying goal in the last seconds of regulation feels like a kick in the teeth.

They get settled in the locker room before the overtime starts, shaking it off in their own ways; next goal wins, so that's all they can think about then, everything else has to wait. Brandon can't remember the last time he had so much fun playing, which is something he's not sure anyone outside the room would be able to understand; something about having everything stacked on this now makes it even better. High risk, high reward; that's probably it. But whatever it is, it gets his blood pounding, makes him feel sharper and clearer and so incredibly fucking present, not aware of anything much more than the stick in his hands, the positions of teammates and opponents alike, tracing the path of the puck as it skitters between them. The only important thing in Brandon's life right at that moment is doing everything he can to get it into the net behind Quick, and they do it.

The handshake line is kind of a blur; Brandon's done this twice this year already and he still doesn't think he's been functioning at more than 75% by that point, and that's even more the case this time. The guys on the other side look exhausted and completely gutted, and Brandon's just so fucking glad it's not them, not him, not this time. It's mostly fine, although he gets stuck behind Duncs — which is awkward when they hit Carter in the opposite line. Brandon tries not to eavesdrop, but given the way Carter claps Duncs on the back after, they're probably fine now. Brandon lets himself have a short patriotic moment to be a little disappointed that the Canadian national team will doubtless be able to keep ticking along fine, but mostly all he has eyes for is the trophy that Tazer's skating towards, and— very definitely not touching, good.

They have a couple of days before the Final starts, and Brandon is pretty sure that he sleeps for like two of them. They're back home until the day before the game, and Brandon thinks later that over that weekend he's pretty much only surfaced for food. He gets dinner on the Monday with Leds and Shawzy, all three of them jittering with nerves. Maybe it's easier for the guys who've been there before, who've done this, but this is all new for all of them. They don't talk about the games, or about hockey at all, really; just talk aimlessly about baseball and TV and whatever else they can think of. By the end of dinner, Shawzy isn't jiggling his leg quite so manically as he had been, although he's still not even remotely sitting still, and Leds at least looks less pale, although he does excuse himself to the bathroom right after they've finished their mains. He's suspiciously flushed when he comes back, enough that Brandon opens his mouth to ask if he'd thrown up or something, however rude that might be, but he also — somehow — looks weirdly better, and he even reaches over to steal the last of Brandon's asparagus before he can eat it.

"Hey," Brandon protests, because he would've eaten that, he was saving it to eat last, something he particularly likes to round out the meal, a habit he's kept since childhood. Leddy swallows the last bite, licks his lips — Brandon's not staring, he's not — and puts his fork down.

"You snooze you lose, Manchild," Leds says, giving him a smirk.

"When you least expect it," Brandon promises him, because seriously, not cool.

"Right," Leddy drawls, and when Brandon looks to Andy for some support he's just laughing at both of them, but he's also not kicking the leg of the table every other moment, so Brandon will take it as a win, really.

Even if they do stick him with the check.

* * *

Brandon scores his first playoff goal.

It's game one of the Stanley Cup Final, and he scores. First Hawk on the board, getting them back within one. No matter that there were 18 games before this one, and Brandon had been starting to wonder, low key, in the back of his mind, if he was ever going to actually score. But there he is, and there they are. It feels fucking great.

The Bruins add another one, but the Hawks claw them both back, and then it's an overtime, and another overtime, and then a third, and Brandon's lungs are burning, his legs ache, did he think he was tired and hurting before? Because surely this is even worse now, but underneath all of that is the fierce determination to keep going, not let up until they get this; the same look he sees on every face along the bench.

And then Shawzy gets the goal; right off his fucking shinpads, and Brandon's never been this elated before, either. This is fucking magic, this right here.

They have a couple days to recover, and then they're right back at the UC again. This time, it's not a fairy tale. They give up the lead, go to OT — and this time it's the Bruins that score.

Game three is a nightmare.

The second game in Boston is all kinds of nuts; Brandon thinks about it afterward, through a haze of exhaustion, muscles shaky and weak with post-adrenaline tremors, and can't believe any of them managed to get through that.

And then they win at home, and somehow, outside of all reasonable expectation, they win on the road, too, and Brandon thinks he's going to relive the last two minutes of that game for the rest of his life, because holy shit, they've come back and won it.

The rest of that week is, to put it kindly, something of a blur.

Summer's good — how could it not be; they won the Cup. Brandon gets to take the Cup home to Pittsburgh, out into the lake, at home by the piano, literally everything he's ever dreamed of. His family are thrilled, his friends happy for him, even if they do — Tro, there all day with him, but carefully keeping Brandon between him and the Cup at all times — also give him endless shit about it.

Summer's also short, and Brandon feels like he's hardly taken a breath before he's back into training, spending time in the gym and on the ice, doing everything he can to add an extra edge, something new and better to what he's already doing. He builds muscle up again; they'd all been worn down by the end of the playoffs, Brandon feels like he's going to be seeing protein shakes in his dreams again soon, not that he's ever sharing that little tidbit again with someone who'll think it makes for an hilarious chirp, _Shawzer_.

Almost too soon — although of course Brandon's thinking about repeating, who wouldn't be? — they're looking at the start of a new season and back in Chicago for the convention. Brandon's dad has a great time on the panel with the other dads, although Brandon mostly just tries not to look like he's dying of embarrassment in public.

He's not expecting much of anything in the panel he has later in the day with Crow and Shawzy, which is probably his first mistake, because Shawzy gets a softball question about who has the best bromance on the team, and while Brandon leans back in his chair and prepares to hear Shawzy's treatise — with footnotes — on how great Boller is, instead Crow jumps in and points the finger at him and Leds. Shawzy goes with it, because he's Shawzy, and Brandon wouldn't expect any less. He laughs it off, because that's the only thing he can do, and works hard to not even let a tiny part of his brain focus on how much he might like that to be true. They're friends, Brandon's an affectionate guy, Leds is great, of course Brandon likes to hang around with him. It's just the same as Shawzy or Smitty or any of the other guys.

(It's not the same at all. Brandon can only lie to himself for so long, which means he needs to either get way better at repressing this now that he's thought about it on and off all summer, or he needs to get over it. Like, now.)

* * *

As with almost everything in Brandon's life, that turns out to be easier said than done. He gets the invite to the August Olympics orientation camp a few days before the convention, gets questions about it there, too. He and Leddy are both going, even if it is as guys who — he has to admit, being practical about it — probably won't make the squad unless guys get hurt. Even so, it's an honor and a thrill all the same.

They can't get on the ice properly, someone says something about insurance issues, and Brandon figures that, okay, it kind of makes sense, but it feels a little silly all the same. It's still cool to be there, though, surrounded by guys who've been to the Olympics before, the very best of the best of USA hockey. Brandon tries to act like he's not a little starstruck — he's played half these guys in the NHL at least by now, if nothing else — but it's still kind of a lot. Leddy seems a bit more laid back, although Brandon can't quite tell if that's because he's hiding it better, or if he really is just that chilled out.

Leddy also knows a few more of the guys than Brandon does; the Michiganders give them a run for their money but the Minnesotans are by far and away the majority, and even the ones who Leds didn't grow up with are guys who've clearly been around enough to breed some familiarity. After they're done for the day, Brandon finds himself hanging out in someone's hotel room with a bunch of the younger guys; Trouba and Bjugstad and Bennett and Faulk amongst them. Brandon's played with Faulk on the USNTDP team, and with Bjugstad at World Juniors, but it's been a while since he's seen either of them, especially since they didn't get any Eastern Conference games in the regular season, and all that.

Bjugstad comes over to say hi and exchange fist-bumps with both Brandon and Leds; cheerful as ever, although he also demands — and gets — a hug from Leddy, something a bit more lingering than the usual sort of bro-hug most guys Brandon's age will go for. Neither of them is weird about it at all, although Brandon does feel his eyebrow raise of its own accord when Bjugs leans down to mutter something into Leddy's ear which makes him grin and then say, "Aww, Bjuggy, way to go," his face a little bit pinker than usual. But that's probably one of those things Brandon should be working harder not to notice.

They've got more off-ice work scheduled for the next day, but nothing particularly early; Brandon figures that they're probably going to wind up hanging out with the other guys for a good hour or two before the unofficial curfew. They've got him and Leds rooming together, and by the sounds of things USA Hockey has done the same for almost everyone who's got a teammate at the camp, aside from the guys who've been through this circus enough times to rate their own room. He's pretty sure it's Trouba's room that they're hanging out in, or maybe Jonesy's — although given that the bag Brandon nearly kicks by the bed is packed with Jets gear, well, the smart money's on Trouba. Or Bogo, or both, he figures. It's probably not all that important, anyway, he thinks, and takes the drink Leds hands him, sitting down on the end of the bed to watch Faulk and Bennett fail to beat the TV into submission. They're trying to hook up someone's console, maybe one of the locals, and the hotel TV is stubbornly refusing to actually connect.

Leddy's talking to Bjugstad still, his shoulder warm against Brandon's, sitting tucked in between them, although Brandon's kind of got his back to them both. He feels like he's being rude, maybe, but when he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder it's clear they're only interested in talking to each other then, off in their own little world.

Brandon can overhear most of their conversation, sure, but it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to him; there's a lot of half-finished sentences and what are clearly pauses with in-jokes, or references to people he doesn't know. When Brandon sneaks a second look — he's just checking, okay, because he's totally going to go harass Trouba again in a minute — Leddy's relaxed and open, leaning in to Bjugs and talking low and fast, more words than most people get out of Leddy in a week. Brandon might be jealous — okay, might be more jealous — if he wasn't also honest enough to admit he's happy to see Leddy looking that pleased to see someone. He does kind of wish some of his other friends were there; if Leds is going to be off with Bjugs every free minute they get then Brandon might be at a loose end himself.

"So how is Rauser, then?" Leddy asks, and Brandon can see the grin that Bjugstad's wearing in his peripheral vision, remembers how Rau and Bjugstad really had been joined at the hip over World Juniors. Of course they're both friends with Leddy, Minnesota boys sticking together, and of course he wants to know how Kyle's doing. Brandon tells himself to stop eavesdropping and turns away to actually talk to Trouba, who's given up on supervising Faulk and Bennett and is just giving Bogosian shit about something. Brandon assumes that's a running thing from the regular season if the way Bogo is rolling his eyes is any indication.

Taking turns siding with Troubs and giving him shit with Bogo occupies Brandon pretty well for a while, but part of his attention is still on the quiet conversation to his right, no matter what he does.

"—yeah, it went okay in the end," Leddy is saying when Brandon tunes back in with a bit more attention. "No kidding your season 'went okay'," Bjugs says, giving him a friendly shove and just about audibly rolling his eyes. "Kind of an understatement there, huh, Saader?" and Brandon takes the invite, twists from his hips to look at both of them and replies, "Yeah, you could say that." He knows the grin he's wearing is too big, desperately uncool, but seriously, the fucking Cup, okay, when is that ever not going to be awesome?

It's nice of Bjugs to include him in their conversation, though; Brandon wouldn't really have blamed them if they'd wanted to hole up in a corner somewhere and get all their mutual acquaintance gossip done without other people around, and he probably would done the same if Rossy or Tro or any of his Pittsburgh guys were around. He wasn't especially tight with Bjugs in Edmonton, or anything; mostly remembers Rau being a tiny ball of tension and pure determination, and Bjugstad as his more cheerful shadow, doesn't think he remembers any time off the ice that you didn't see one without the other. It's actually almost kind of weird to see Bjugs by himself, now, when Brandon thinks about it, although he tries to keep that thought off his face. No reason to make Bjugs or Leddy think he's being weird.

Although Bjugs is giving Brandon weird looks, actually; looking at him almost too long, and then back to Leddy, like he's trying to- work something out? Brandon forces his expression to go even blanker, pasting on a faint, neutral smile, just in case. He can't figure out whatever it is that Bjugs is looking for, and when Leddy seems to notice a few minutes after Brandon has, he just punches Bjugstad in the thigh — pretty hard, if Brandon's any judge — and says, "Cut it out."

So clearly it's a Minnesota thing, Brandon thinks, and tries to put that out of his mind.

He gets drawn into the good-natured argument that Faulk and Trouba are having — mostly because they claim to want a forward's opinion, not, it seems, that either of them is actually going to listen long enough to realize they're both wrong — and almost doesn't notice when Leddy gets up, just feels the mattress shift slightly as he moves.

"Hey, you wanna—?" Leddy asks quietly, and Brandon turns his head to answer and catches himself just in time, because Leds is actually talking to Bjugstad, and Bjugs is giving him the doubled-down version of the same weird look he'd been wearing earlier.

"Yeah," Bjugs says slowly, "Of course, but. Really, Leds?" and then inexplicably he glances at Brandon — just long enough to notice him looking back — and almost like he's hit a switch Bjugs goes all poker-faced. Leddy doesn't seem to have noticed, or at least is pretending hard like he didn't, and just says, "Duh, c'mon," and then, belatedly adds, "Later, Saader," over his shoulder as the two of them vanish out the door.

"Minnesotans are weird," Brandon says, mostly to himself, but Troubs just says, "Word," without missing a beat and reaches over to fist-bump him.

* * *

Leddy's in bed, blankets pulled over his head and to all observation fast asleep by the time Brandon makes his way back to their room later that evening. He takes his time getting ready for bed; sure, they don't have to be up as early as they would during the season but he'd still rather lay everything out now while he's awake than stumble around the room in the morning trying to remember where he's left his razor.

Plus, they'll have hardly any time to themselves on Tuesday as it is; after they're done with all the orientation camp stuff they're apparently heading over to Nationals Park to watch the game there, part of the whole USA Hockey promo circuit. Brandon's mostly looking forward to it, especially since he knows most of the attention is going to be on the other guys. They'll just get to watch the game, and maybe wave on the jumbotron or whatever. There's still a couple weeks before training camp, too, so Brandon's pretty sure he won't be the only one indulging in a little bit of ballpark food, especially since there's probably going to be no beer allowed if they're there to rep USA Hockey and all that.

Brandon's alarm goes off far too early the next morning, and Leddy's no help, just throwing a pillow at his feet when Brandon groans and tries to bargain with himself for five more minutes. He can skip shaving, no one's going to care that much. Probably.

"C'mon, Saader," Leddy says, "I showered already, bathroom's all yours."

"Ugh," Brandon says again, but he gets up anyway, instinctively putting a hand onto Leddy's hip as he steps past him to go into the bathroom, palm landing just above the towel wrapped around his waist, his skin warm and smooth under Brandon's fingers.

It's no more intimate than any way they've touched before, nothing exceptional at all; hell, Brandon's seen Leddy more naked than this almost every day of the week during the season, but for some reason Leddy jumps away like he's been burned, flinching.

"Uh, sorry?" Brandon says, scrunching up his face, trying to read a clue to what's going on from Leddy's expression.

Leddy scrubs a hand over his face, blinking a few times, thumb and forefinger pressing in to the corners of his mouth, like he's trying to keep his first response in by pressure alone. His voice is muffled by his hand, mumbling and not meeting Brandon's eyes. "It's fine, sorry, just— wasn't expecting that, I had a weird night."

"Okay?" Brandon says, still kind of confused, but Leddy's expression has settled pretty much firmly onto 'embarrassed and would like to drop the subject', and Brandon's a good enough friend to respect that, even if he doesn't understand it.

"We can go down for breakfast once you've showered?" Leddy suggests, and Brandon takes the unsubtle hint, disappears into the bathroom as instructed. The last thing he sees before the door closes is Leddy crouching down by the fridge he'd insisted they get in their room.

By the time they get to breakfast Leddy's acting normal again, reaches past Brandon to steal the salt from the other end of the table, his forearm pressing up against Brandon's chest, and Brandon just takes another forkful of egg and keeps talking to Jonesy. Bjugstad drops into a chair opposite him and Leddy a few minutes later, barely on time to get a full breakfast in, and nearly kicks Brandon's ankle when he stretches out. There's just a lot of leg when you're 6'6, Brandon figures, and raises an eyebrow at him.

"Guys," Bjugs says, cheerfully, and digs in to his breakfast without actually saying anything else. Jonesy catches Brandon's eye and shakes his head, smirking, because yeah, Bjugs might be in a good mood but he also looks a little worse for wear. Which is weird, Brandon doesn't remember him drinking the night before.

* * *

They spend the majority of the day at Kettler, talking through what's expected of them all during the first few months of the season, and getting as prepared as it's possible to be, even though all the coaches seem to be taking pains to reiterate that making this camp is no guarantee, and that guys who didn't make the camp are still under consideration, too. It makes Brandon all the more determined to start the season strong, though; as if he needed any additional motivation. He doesn't let himself get distracted, though, makes certain that he's engaged and listening and doing everything he can do now, too.

There's some video sessions later in the afternoon, and Bylsma gives them a basic idea of the systems the team will be working with, and even if Brandon doesn't get to go to Russia he's still determined to get the most he can out of this opportunity, ready to learn.

The team bonding activities are the usual mix of actually fun and cringe-inducing, but Brandon relaxes when they get herded onto buses and taken down to the ballpark; this part at least is going to be easy. It's still warm out, a lot of heat left in the day even as the sun's behind clouds, and Brandon can feel himself starting to sweat, glad he's only wearing a thin shirt under the jersey, because this fabric just does not breathe.

It's a decent game; the home side takes the eventual 2-1 win, which means the crowd's happy too, and Brandon doesn't really have a rooting interest when it comes to Marlins-Nats, just happy to enjoy the night out. He only slips up once and refers to them as the Florida Marlins, but no one chirps him too hard for it, mostly, he figures, because they've all done it occasionally. He drifts back to hang out with Trouba for the last couple of innings, more interested by that point in the conversation they're having since no one from either team seems like they can actually put a run on the board. The Marlins make it interesting with a homer at the top of the sixth, but can't get anything else together to actually tie it. Bjugstad and Leddy are deep in conversation as well, leaning in to each other, and talking fast and quiet every time Brandon looks over at them. They look up long enough to wave when they all wind up on the jumbotron later, but that's about it, and Brandon should definitely be chirping Leds about this later.

The group heading back to their hotel after the game is cheerful enough, and Leddy drifts back over to sit next to Brandon on the bus.

"Bjugs didn't have dibs?" he asks, careful to keep his tone light.

"I'm sharing the love, Saader," Leddy says, elbowing him in the side. "I'll see him at home next week anyway."

"Oh, I see how it is," Brandon says, knowing his lines in this script.

Rather than playing along with the teasing Leddy just gives him a serious look, the corners of his mouth turning up just a little; the way he does when he's trying to be sincere and not over-thinking it. That actually makes Brandon feel more settled than anything else; it's good to know that Leds wants to hang out with him even when he's got other options.

"Well," Leddy says, after a while. "Bjuggy's been too busy to catch up lately," this, pitched clearly enough to carry forward to the seat in front of them where Bjugstad just snorts and flips Leddy off without even turning around to look, "Of course, now he's run out of interesting stories…"

"Fuck you, you're way more boring," Bjugstad says cheerfully and then goes back to whatever he was saying to Bogosian, and Brandon lets himself relax back into the seat, smiling as Leddy just rolls his eyes theatrically and stretches out, trying to kick Bjugs under the seat.

"It doesn't help you make the team even if you do take out his ankle," Brandon jokes — quietly, because that one's maybe right on the line, but Leddy laughs and says, "Okay, sure, good point," and sits up properly again, rescuing his ballcap before it falls off where the bill's caught on the back of the seat as he was slouching. His hair is a disaster, and Brandon tells him so, and they just go back and forth like that for the rest of the drive, and it's comfortingly normal.

Brandon's totally nailing this stop thinking about it and it'll go away plan.

* * *

They'd gotten out to the ballpark early enough in the day that Brandon figures most of the guys have picked up a little color from it, and he sure doesn't remember anyone actually applying sunscreen. He's probably fine; the jersey and a backwards ballcap will have kept the sun off the back of his neck, at least, and his face feels fine — just a little grimy from being outdoors and sweating. Leddy does seem to have picked up a faint burn, probably not enough to be more than just mildly annoying, since Brandon's definitely seen pictures of him out on the lake over summer wearing less and a lot pinker.

That's a dangerous set of thoughts to be having though, and Brandon yanks his mind back on track, just busying himself getting ready for bed and making sure he's not-looking just as much as usual when Leddy strips off and changes himself. He's down to just the shorts he'd worn out to Nationals Park when he wanders into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and Brandon just looks up automatically at the movement when he comes back out again, doesn't mean to stare, but he can't quite help himself, self-control slipping as his gaze catches on the reddened patch of skin high on his side, above his abs, just below his nipples. It's darker than the pale skin of his chest, and not hidden at all by the scattering of chest hair, the wrong color to be a bruise. Or, at least, a bruise from something like working out or taking a puck awkwardly, not that they've been in a position to do that recently. Brandon doesn't exactly sleep around a lot, or pick up regularly, or anything, but— he recognizes a hickey when he sees one.

And it's not like Brandon is doing a regular survey, or anything like that, but he's completely certain that it hadn't been there yesterday, and the only—

The only person he's seen Leddy spend any time privately with in the last day has been _Bjugstad_.

"Actually, I'm gonna shower tonight," Brandon says, rolling out of bed in a hurry and into the bathroom. Leds is, thankfully, apparently distracted by whatever it was he was thinking about, or going to pull out of his bag, because he doesn't seem to have noticed anything weird about what Brandon's doing, just says, "Sure thing, Saader," and finishes stripping off ready for bed. Brandon closes the bathroom door behind himself a little harder than he quite intends to, just catching it with the edge of his palm before it can slam, and starts the water running.

And then he sits down on the edge of the tub for a long minute and thinks, "Oh, fuck."

Because if Leddy really was sneaking off with Bjugstad to get laid — or at least to fool around, then that means Leddy is actually into guys, that maybe the little hints Brandon's caught over the last year or so actually do add up to this bigger picture, that—

That maybe Brandon's going to find it even harder now not to keep wondering what would actually happen if he made a pass at him.

It's a terrible idea, and it's always been a terrible idea, and Brandon _knows that_ , but somehow the notion that maybe it wouldn't necessarily completely and totally freak Leddy out makes it even more tempting. To imagine, if nothing else.

And Brandon could still be wrong, anyway. There could be some other explanation. It's not like Brandon can exactly come right out and ask. He just has to stick to the plan.

* * *

Brandon figures everything should go back to normal when the season starts, and it does, kind of, although mostly what he realizes is that he has no idea what normal actually is. It's not like he's ever played a full professional season before; as everyone's in a hurry to point out, the lockout-shortened season was different. And they're the reigning Cup champions to boot, which makes everything even better, but also harder, because now everyone's gunning for them, the target on their backs as the mark to meet bright and shiny.

They at least skip the ignominy of losing their season opener; with vivid memories of spoiling the Kings' party last year Brandon finds himself even more motivated to prevent them from suffering a similar fate. He stands with Leds as they watch the banner go up into the rafters and thinks that, yeah, he could get used to this.

Brandon's still on his entry level contract, naturally, but Leddy's signed an extension over the summer, two more years with the Hawks, and while it doesn't mean that much changes — other than the number of jokes about things he should be paying for — with the new CBA it does mean that he has his own room on the road, which leaves Brandon and Shawzy still stuck with each other, the only two in the main roster still sharing.

It also leads to a lot of jokes about how he and Leds are time-sharing Andy, since Brandon has to put up with him on the road and Leddy, of course, has him around when they're at home. Though Leds at least gets his own bedroom. Brandon will tease them both about it, but he's pretty sure they all know he doesn't really mind. Sometimes having company is nice, although if he has to watch the same four episodes of Entourage that Shawzy keeps falling asleep to one more time he might actually follow through on his threat to leave him out in the corridor snoring.

He probably couldn't do it, for one because leaving Shawzy in public just wearing a bathrobe would probably lead to public indecency charges, and secondly — and more critically for his purposes — he's the lightest fucking sleeper; Brandon getting up to get the remote and turning the damn TV off has been enough to wake him up more often than not. Brandon probably couldn't actually pick him up and dump him outside the room door without him waking up — and fighting back. Sometimes it's nice to dream, though.

Besides, any time Brandon's seriously itching for some quiet time when they are on the road he finds himself drifting to Leddy's room, turning up like clockwork. It might make him sadly predictable, but Leds doesn't seem to mind. In fact, Brandon suspects he kind of misses the company himself sometimes, especially since he claims the whole point of watching shitty reality TV is to make fun of it, and you need an audience for that. Brandon isn't sure that his enjoyment is all that ironic, really, but Leddy's sharp and funny, and it's just easier to sprawl out on the spare bed in his room and talk quietly, tossing comments back and forth about the life choices of people on TV, and mocking the survival skills of half the contestants on Survivor — "Who goes on this show without watching the last ten seasons first??" Leddy asks, rhetorically, and with sincere disgust, as they both stare at the guy who apparently never actually learned how to build a fire.

"Even I know that," Brandon says, feeling smugly competent. He's not saying he could survive in the wild Bear Grylls-style or anything, but. He can build a campfire, for sure. Probably. It's been a while since they've gone camping rather than just taking the boat out on the lake, anyhow, but he's pretty sure that's not a skill you lose.

"Yeah," Leddy says, "Pity about all their other requirements, though," and Brandon, accurately diagnosing that as the insult which it was, throws a pillow at him.

"Thanks," Leds says, sitting up long enough to punch it into place behind him, and Brandon sighs, because he's got an older brother and recognizes that classic trap, even if it is too late to do more than grumble about it. Sometimes it's easy to forget that Leddy's the same age as George, that he's older.

That he's an older brother, Brandon corrects himself. That's all.

* * *

They hit a streaky patch right before the circus trip; they get absolutely levelled in Nashville, giving up 7 against, which might be the worst scoreline Brandon's been on the wrong side of in a few years. As if to make up for that, they come home for the second half of the back-to-back and absolutely annihilate the Sharks in turn, sending them packing in a way that has the UC rocking and half the team firmly convinced that they've bounced back just fine. And then a couple days later they get blown out by the Avs — and isn't _that_ starting to feel awfully familiar, Brandon thinks glumly afterward — which is pretty much the exact opposite of how they'd wanted to start the road trip off.

The travel is ridiculous, too; Brandon knows he'd got off lightly his first year, not playing the East until they met Boston meant they'd at least skipped some of that hassle, but now they've got Denver to Winnipeg to Vancouver, and Brandon's pretty sure even an eight year old can look at that geography and think that something's a bit backward there. He gets even better at sleeping on the plane than he already had been, dropping off to sleep as soon as they've hit cruising altitude, and only waking up when they're going to get fed.

Shawzy gives him shit for missing out on the ongoing poker tournament, but at least this way Brandon doesn't have to come up with any new and exciting bets to offer as forfeits, since they'd played for cash for about two weeks before deciding that was too boring — and Leds was too good at winning. Brandon had enjoyed watching Shawzy try to carefully pile sugar packets on top of Sharpy's head until he woke up just as much as the rest of them, but he'd also been pretty glad to be out of the field of fire for the eventual payback.

They double-up on the Jets, which feels pretty good, but Brandon's not taking anything for granted, and the fact they've all made the effort to stay in afterward and focus on the games ahead seems to pay off. They beat the Canucks as well, just one goal in it, but Brandon's been in the locker room long enough by this point to always feel that little extra edge to it when they play Vancouver. Brandon's never heard the full story there, but he knows there's something more than just the three years of playoff match-ups and some chippy regular season games.

He steers clear of Duncs afterward just in case, because he's always extra touchy about playing them, too. Especially since it was Brandon's penalty that put them two men down before Kesler's powerplay goal, and Duncs really _really_ doesn't like Kesler.

Admittedly, Brandon's not too fond of him either — he'd been frustrated and inexplicably impatient before slashing him in the first place, feeling his usual calm sort of wash away, but usually Brandon has a better handle on his emotions in game than that. There's a faint smoky smell in the locker room afterward, even though they got the win in regulation and Brandon has to duck as Seabs balls up his socks and throws them — with pinpoint accuracy — at Duncs before saying, "hey, quit it, Jigsaw."

Duncs grumbles, and steals a bottle of Gatorade out of Johnny O's stall, but he calms down after that, and the vaguely greasy electrical feeling in the air dissipates fast. Brandon's never actually seen him seriously lose control — they wouldn't let him play even with the CBA if he had — but it's definitely one of the closer calls they've had. The rest of them steer clear of him until they get back to the plane at least, letting Seabs play Duncs-whisperer by silent agreement, since he's by far and away the best at it.

They kick the crap out of the Oilers again, which is nice, because it seems like it's a blowout any time they play Edmonton and Brandon would much rather be on this side of it. Plus, it makes for a much more relaxing flight on the way out. At least this way they don't have to fly over the Rockies again for a bit; Brandon doesn't mind flying usually, but the occasional updrafts over the mountains are not the most enjoyable way to get woken up from a nap, that's for sure.

They get Rants the win in Calgary, which of course means they have to go out to celebrate. Brandon winds up in the middle of a booth, trapped pretty well with Shawzy on one side and Smitty on the other, and his face as he finishes his drink and realizes there's gonna be no easy way to get up for a another must be pretty obvious, because Leddy gets his attention from the far end where he's sitting and mimes 'refill?' Brandon grins back at him and nods, and Leds must've worked some magic with the bartender, because despite the line of people three deep at the bar, he's back less than five minutes later with a drink for himself and a second one that he slides across the table to Brandon.

Brandon mouths 'Thanks' in his direction — there's no point trying to talk at anything below a yell at that point — and gives him a thumbs up. Leddy just gives him a quick, closed-mouth smile and raises his glass in salute.

"Way to fucking go, Rants," Crow does yell from Shawzy's other side, and he gives Raanta a solid punch to the shoulder which just makes him grin indulgently, before accepting the drink that Seabs hands him.

They all have to toast him again at that point, and Brandon doesn't overdo it — not with Thanksgiving the next day, even if they're going to just be getting a meal somewhere near their hotel in Dallas, not quite the same — but he's definitely tipsy enough that he doesn't notice when Leddy disappears, just that he looks over at one point so they can both laugh at Shawzy's inability to stack the condiments on the table without knocking the salt cellar over and Leds isn't there. Brandon doesn't think anything of it until Leddy wanders back, right before they're all about to finally head back to the hotel, looking smug and relaxed and a little pink, like— holy shit, Brandon thinks, he totally hooked up. Wow, and smoothly enough that none of them even noticed, apparently.

Brandon's impressed.

That's all it is. Impressed. Maybe a little jealous, but just because it's been weeks since he hooked up with anyone. Fooling around with Vince in the off-season really doesn't count.

Shawzy doesn't seem to have noticed at least, because he doesn't say anything when they're getting in each other's way in the bathroom back in their hotel room, jostling for space in front of the sink, because Shawzy waits for no man when he wants to brush his teeth, and Brandon doesn't like giving in to him when he doesn't have to. It sets a bad precedent. Probably neither of them is actually going to elbow someone in the head while they're brushing their teeth, anyhow. Brandon hopes. Shawzy normally has a lot to say when anyone picks up — despite his general shamelessness Kruger still blushes super obviously and thus cops even more teasing than anyone else does — but he doesn't do anything more than steal the lone remaining bottle of hotel-branded water from the side of the sink before Brandon can get it, even though it should've been his, and goes to throw himself on the bed he'd called dibs on the night before when they'd got in to Calgary.

(Brandon isn't sure why, after rooming together for over a year, they still bother actually claiming a bed, since Andy always wants the bed closest to the door and Brandon just doesn't care, but something about racing to be the first one in the door and then hurling himself onto the bed seems to make Shawzy happy, and a happy Shawzy is a slightly less annoying Shawzy, so Brandon just indulges him on that one. He's probably got his own quirks that Andy has to just grin and bear, it should all work out in the end, he figures.)

* * *

They close out the road trip with an overall 6-1 record, and Brandon doesn't think they could do anything but be pleased with that. Especially given how many games they'd been down by one and managed to come back for the win. Obviously it'd be ideal to not need to come back from a deficit so often, but knowing they can is a pretty huge confidence boost for the room; Brandon can't remember the last time he'd looked at the scoreboard in any building and seriously doubted their ability to come back. It's not always going to work out, of course; he'd be lying to himself if he thought that, but being able to have that confidence in themselves will probably help them scrape a few wins that they otherwise wouldn't get.

Of course, then they go on a three game losing streak, so Brandon thinks he should know by then to be better about counting his metaphorical chickens before they hatch.

The Panthers are in town early in the month, which if nothing else gives all of them a chance to catch up with Hayesy and see how Florida's treating him. He gives the rest of them shit over dinner by pointing out that he'd got out before real winter started and promises to send them pictures from the beach when they have their next blizzard. Brandon's only the second person to threaten to dump ice down his back because he'd had a mouthful when Hayesy said it and Boller hadn't. No one actually does, although Brandon has to admit the way Boller was chasing the last few ice cubes around his glass with the straw was impressively menacing.

Shawzy's pretty laid back the whole way through dinner, which would be out of character for him if Brandon wasn't also fairly certain that just meant he was saving up everything he could possibly need to chirp Hayes with for the game the next day. After last season, Brandon's pretty sure that any time the NHL want to put mics on the ice Shawzy will be making their top ten. Although they'll definitely want the 5 second delay.

The game against the Panthers is pretty chippy, even if the ice is tilted fairly heavily in the Hawks' favor. Brandon has a good night personally; Seabs tips his shot on the powerplay in the first and then he picks up a goal later in the third, and he stays out of the box, which is more than can be said for a good quarter of the team. Q's not particularly happy about that, even if they do put six past Clemmenson.

They keep that going a little longer; Brandon gets a pair against the Stars and they come home to kick the Flyers while they're down; three straight games scoring six or more. It's probably poetic or ironic or something like that that when they do lose again it’s the Leafs putting seven past them. They win a couple, lose a couple after that, can't settle into a consistent streak, although at least they win their last game before the Christmas break. The Devils don't go down easy, but Brandon picks up a few more points, a secondary assist on Leddy's goal to close things out, and it's a good feeling to be able to carry home with them.

No one's celebrating too hard, even if they had put together a three goal lead, but Versteeg's cranking the music as they change, and Brandon gets caught up talking about holiday plans with Leds and Hammer; Hammer and his family are just staying in Chicago, but Leds is heading back to Minnesota first thing the next morning, and Brandon's got a flight to Pittsburgh about the same time. Brandon's trying to remember, as they head into the showers, just exactly what time his flight is; he's pretty sure it's close enough to Leds' and even if it's a bit later he can just kill time at the airport if they share a cab.

"I will come up and dump ice water on your head if you oversleep, though," Leds says to him, raising his voice so Brandon can hear him more clearly over the sound of water on tiles.

"Remind me why I gave you a key again?" Brandon gripes, elbowing Leddy in the ribs both as punctuation and to get him to shove over. He turns around then, lets his head fall forward for a few seconds so that the hot water beats down on the back of his neck, water beading up and dripping over his ears.

"I think this is pretty much why," Leddy says, licking his lips before grinning at Brandon, eyebrows raised challengingly. "Someone needs to check up on you sometimes, Manchild."

"Oh please, you and Shawzy killed three houseplants this year and you're going to check up on me?" Brandon replies, he's maybe been keeping that one in reserve for a moment just like this.

Leddy isn't thrown for more than a couple of seconds, and Brandon sees his mouth twitch like he wants to laugh too, before he tries, "That was the dogs, not us," which would maybe be believable if the pots had been knocked over or eaten rather than — to Brandon's expertly-trained-by-his-parents eye — not watered, possibly ever.

"I thought they liked expensive sneakers, not bamboo," Brandon says mildly, but when Leddy — and Shawzy, overhearing and scowling again, if Brandon's any judge, about the loss of his Nikes — looks outraged, he can't help himself before adding, "How did you manage to kill _bamboo_ , seriously?"

"We're just that good, Saader," Shawzy says, before shaking his head in a move that looks like he's copied it from Bailey, spraying water droplets from his hair that just miss both Brandon and Leddy, and heading back into the locker room to finish drying off and dressing.

"I think he's actually proud," Leddy says a moment later, and Brandon just shakes his head. Sometimes he really doesn't get Shawzy.

"You're both weird," Brandon says, leaning around Leds to grab the shampoo to wash his hair. He's not going to want to go outdoors with wet hair in the morning, that's for sure.

"Yeah, _they're_ the weird ones," Bicks says, sotto voce, standing under the shower spray to Brandon's other side, and when Brandon looks at him and raises an eyebrow he just shakes his head and steps out to grab a towel himself. Brandon's not sure what he's trying to imply.

* * *

They lose to the Rangers in regulation early in the New Year, the first game in a while where they haven't scraped at least a point. Q's distinctly unimpressed and says as much to them in the room and to the media; Brandon knows he's a little defensive about it, because they've mostly been getting it done, one bad game — one bad period — doesn't necessarily mean that they're trending the wrong way all of a sudden.

Whether they are or not, they hit one of the weird little breaks in the schedule right afterward, where there's inexplicably three days off before their next game — and then of course that's a back-to-back, away in Montreal and then home at the UC, because why would the schedule ever be kind enough to break things up evenly.

The Christmas break was barely a week ago, so it's not like it feels as necessary as a day off sometimes does. Brandon's not entirely sick of the sight — and more importantly sound — of his teammates again yet, and he doesn't have the mountain of chores and week-day errands to run that he has sometimes, especially during the tougher parts of the season. He mostly catches up on his TiVo and harrasses Shawzy and Leds into letting him tag along to the off-leash park along the lake, which means all of them work off a bit of energy, chasing the dogs and each other around, although Brandon point blank refuses to let Shawzy talk him into fetching when he throws the tennis ball further than even Char wants to chase it. Leds is the one who breaks and goes to get it in the end, bitching them both out over his shoulder as he trudges through the thin layer of snow that's covering most everything. Brandon's about ready to head back indoors for a hot drink by that point, too, even if it's not as cold as it had been a week earlier.

They trudge back to Shawzy and Leds' place, dirty boots piling up on the plastic mat just inside the door, and Brandon falls asleep on their couch, more tired than he'd quite realized. He doesn't wake up again until Chaunette gets home, and then it's the loud fake click of a phone camera that actually wakes him up; he's laying flat on the couch, curled around the corner of the sectional, his feet tangled with Leddy's. Leds is still out cold, snoring a little, stretched out on the long side of the couch, and when Brandon blinks a few times he can see the reason he's so warm is that not only is the central heating on, always higher at Shawzy's than he keeps his, but someone — and Brandon has a canny notion that he can guess who, _Andrew_ — has covered both of them with a pink afghan that Brandon's pretty sure came off the bed in the master bedroom. And Bails is also fast asleep right by his feet, curled in a ball, nose tucked right up to his tail, making little snuffling noises and twitching his ears in his sleep.

"Oh god, why," he groans, but doesn't actually do more than put his arm over his face, in the futile hope that it'll prevent more embarrassing pictures being taken, at least. If he moves he'll wake up Bailey, and probably Leddy — the latter part of which should probably not be as much of a consideration as it is. Brandon's not that great at facing uncomfortable facts when he's half asleep, so he pushes that thought well to the back of his mind.

"It's too cute," Chaunette murmurs, and Brandon can hear her stepping delicately around the sectional, and then another click as she apparently lines up a second angle. "Suck it up, Saader."

There's a louder series of noises that follows that; Andy coming out of their bedroom, and — Brandon doesn't even need to look to translate the next set of sounds as Shawzy walking over to Chaunette to kiss her hello, and then a few more heel-click sounds and another camera click.

Brandon groans and tries to sink inside the sofa, settling for reaching behind himself and putting the cushion over his face, at least. Maybe he can claim it's Boller in the pictures if they can't actually see enough of him.

"Aren't they just stupidly cute?" Shawzy asks, clearly directing that to Chaunette.

"Shhh," she says quietly, and unlike Shawzy, Chaunette has mastered an actually quiet tone, rather than the loud whisper Shawzy thinks is him being subtle.

"I'm awake," Brandon says into the cushion. "Also you both suck."

"How big do you think we can print this one?" Shawzy asks her. "I think it would look great all over Saader's stall at Johnnys.”

"I'm gonna get you for this," Brandon says, eyes still firmly closed, although he's given up and dumped the cushion back onto the carpet now; it's too uncomfortable to try and breathe through it. Bails whuffs in his sleep, and rolls even more heavily onto Brandon's foot, trapping him even more effectively, and Brandon can't quite resist adding, "And your little dog, too."

They both giggle exactly the same way at him in response.

* * *

They get to Montreal early the day before their game; it gives them time to settle in without the usual hectic rush, and Brandon thinks about doing some sight-seeing, maybe, since they've got a couple hours before team dinner, and it's actually the first time he's been there. Shawzy and Boller are both keen, and Leds says he'll come with them, too, even though he's been in town a few times.

"The draft was here, too," he says, shrugging, and Brandon had known that somewhere in the back of his mind, but hadn't thought about it much. He's seen pictures; Leddy in the Minnesota jersey, looking all of fifteen, and with even worse hair than he has now, or at least that's how Brandon describes it to Shawzy and Boller, and only the fact none of them particularly want to fuck around with international roaming on their phones if they don't have to keeps him from pulling up google to prove it. Leddy just rolls his eyes at all of them and tries to pretend he's above it all.

They wander around doing touristy things, checking out the old town and the old port, moving enough to stay warm, although it's luckily not all that cold out for January. Brandon buys a spell key from one of the little stores in the older part of town, and uses that to read the plaques with historical information dotted around, neatly hidden from the view of anyone who doesn't know how — or want to pay — to see them. On the one hand, sure, it's a total tourist trap rip-off, but it's still interesting. And Brandon sort of suspects the locals appreciate not having all the signs cluttering up the middle of town, especially since even with the spell everything's in both French and English. Brandon gets caught up reading a lengthy entry about the port and Shawzy chirps him a little for it, but also gets into a playful argument with Boller about whether he remembers more from French class, at which point Brandon exchanges a look with Leddy and just says, "Canadians, eh?"

Shawzer tries to put a handful of snow down the back of his collar in response.

They admire the Notre Dame Basilica and Brandon thinks about going in; he's heard of it although he doesn't, off the top of his head, remember why precisely. The day's slipping away from them by that point and they really should head back to the hotel to meet the rest of the team, so he puts that into the 'later' list in his head. Maybe he can come back on his own or just with anyone else who's interested next year, or something.

Dinner is much the same as always, and it's still relatively early by the time they wrap up. Brandon's planning on just heading back to the hotel, although some of the other guys want to go out for a little bit, they've heard good things about the clubs in Montreal and unlike in the States, everyone's legal to drink — not that anyone's likely to overindulge the night before a game. It's a Friday night so there's plenty of people around too, and maybe Brandon should go out; he's not the worst dancer, and he can flirt well enough to at least try to pick someone up. He can't quite work up the enthusiasm for it, though.

Brandon looks over to catch Leddy's eye — Friday night TV is pretty dire but he's sure they can find something to mock — but he's gone.

"Hey, did you see where Leds got to?" he asks Sharpy, after glancing around a second time and still not finding him.

Sharpy shrugs at him, and says, "He was looking at his phone? Dunno, Saader."

"Huh," Brandon says, and then adds, "I guess I'll catch up later, then."

He knocks on Leds’ door when they get back to the hotel — just in case, maybe he went back a little early or stopped by somewhere else; he definitely wasn't with Kostka and the others who were going to a club somewhere nearby — but there's no answer, and even when he flicks his phone on long enough to send a quick message Leds doesn't reply.

Brandon winds up just watching a movie with Shawzy and crashing pretty early, and he doesn't think much more about it. As a consequence of the quiet night in, he's actually up in time for the earlier part of breakfast the next morning, instead of the very tail end which is where he usually manages to be. He's almost done eating when Leddy makes his way into the dining area set aside for them, and Shawzy looks up from his eggs long enough to say, "Huh, you two switched this morning," because Brandon's usually the one stumbling half-awake to the table at about the same time that Leddy's finishing up his meal, although he does usually hang around and linger over his tea, chatting to Brandon and Shawzy and anyone else who crams in to a table with them.

For all that he's running later than usual, Leddy seems like he's wide awake, cheerful to a degree that Brandon thinks might actually be better labeled as perky, which even for Leddy is a lot. He sits down opposite Brandon, and Boller shifts his plate and the basket of extra condiments over to give him more room as he settles at the table. He's practically radiating goodwill to all mankind, which is nice, if somewhat perplexing to Brandon.

"You're in a good mood," Shawzy says, and then steals a piece of bacon off Leds' plate rather than getting up to get his own. Leddy's just not quick enough with the fork to defend it, even though Brandon figures he gets extra practice at dealing with Andy at home. Or, more specifically, Andy's innate ability to find a way to be a pest in almost any area of life when he wants to be. When he's being more cynical, Brandon figures that Leds just puts extra bacon on the plate and allows for it. And Brandon can't really throw any stones there anyway, because god knows he's been known to do the same.

"It's a beautiful day out there," Leddy says, completely deadpan.

Boller snorts. "Yeah, it's gonna be a whole forty degrees."

Brandon shrugs, feigns seriousness and decides to play along. "Above freezing is an improvement," he says, and when Shawzy mutters "amen" they clink their glasses together in a toast to that.

"I don't know why I hang out with you losers," he says, but he can't disguise the fondness in his tone, or hide the grin as Shawzy claps him on the shoulder and says, "Because we're awesome, _duh_."

"Where'd you get to last night anyway?" Shawzy asks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "You go out clubbing with the other guys or something? Saader wanted to hang out, but don't worry, at least he had the most important person there for bro time."

Leddy raises an eyebrow at Andy's cheerful self-promotion. "He had himself?" he suggests, and Brandon snickers, too, laughing harder when Shawzy just yelps, "Hey!" and reaches over to try and smack Leddy on the arm. He leans away from Shawzy's joking attempt at a slap easily, moving in a way that looks almost too-smooth and natural, taking a forkful of his breakfast at the same time. "Nah," he says, going on to answer Shawzy's first question, "I met up with a friend after dinner, we don't get to hang out all that often, so it was good timing." He grins to himself before leaning forward to start seriously working on his food, making it wordlessly clear that he doesn't have anything else to say.

Brandon leans back in his chair, feeling the hard back press against his shoulder blades. He shifts a little on the seat as he thinks that he's feeling a little tight through the hips, maybe, and plans on getting some extra stretches in before they have to sit on a bus or go do any of their off-ice stuff later in the morning. So Leds went out to meet up with a friend, nothing unusual there, although Brandon's a little surprised he didn't mention it before. Probably something came up last minute, he figures. It's not like him and Leds had actually had specific plans, Brandon's just— used to hanging out with him on the road, that's all.

They finish up breakfast, and head back to their rooms to grab anything they might need for the rest of the morning, and Brandon's quiet as he moves around Shawzy in the room, grabbing his phone from the charger and double-checking his wallet's in his suit jacket and not still in the back pocket of his jeans from the day before.

He sits next to Leddy on the bus, but neither of them is feeling particularly chatty; Brandon just gazes idly out the window as they drive, getting a different perspective on the area they'd walked around yesterday. It's a short ride to the Bell Centre anyway, so he doesn't have time to do much more than that, winding his headphones around his phone before stashing it back in his pocket before they walk in to get ready for their morning skate and team meetings.

Brandon's talking to Oduya about the set play for the PK that Kitch had gone over with them earlier as they're changing, and he's caught up in that enough that he doesn't even notice at first when Shawzy's constant stream of chatter — telling Leds and Boller about some movie he thought was set in Montreal or something — comes to a complete halt. He does notice when Shawzy whistles, very obviously teasing, and turns around to see what he's missing just in time to catch Shawzy's "Damn, Leds, someone had fun last night. That's some friend, huh?"

Leddy manages to keep a fairly unfazed expression, although Brandon can't help but notice his ears are going red, even if he's fighting to keep the blush off his face. He also can't help but notice the marks that are sitting just below his collar, two really obvious hickeys that Brandon knows sure as hell weren't there the last time they'd practiced.

Shawzy's comment has drawn attention from a couple of the other guys, although most of them wisely don't comment; Leds can take being chirped as well as the rest of them, but frankly Brandon suspects most of them don't quite have the energy yet to really give him shit for it. Maybe after their skate when they've warmed up in more ways than one.

Leddy's getting dressed a little quicker than usual, and it probably says something for how Brandon does pay too much attention to him that he even notices that, but before long the marks are hidden under his underarmor and pads and practice jersey; then they're heading down the tunnel and out onto the ice, and Brandon puts all of that aside, focusing on what he needs to be doing out there.

It's a quick skate like it usually is on a game day; Q focusing on a few of the problems they've been working through recently in video review after games, line rushes and just enough of a drill to get them loose and in the right mindset. Q cuts them loose before too long, and Brandon and everyone else who isn't almost-definitely on the scratches list and therefore destined for the press-box heads back into the locker rooms to shower and change.

Brandon's talking to Leddy as they start to undress, just like normal, and he's even somehow managed to completely forget everything that had happened earlier in the day. He's put it out of his mind so successfully that it's almost a shock when Leds peels his shirt off and Brandon sees the marks again, just high enough that his gaze catches on them. He manages to keep talking without giving any of his reaction away — or so he hopes, a little panicked by how hard it is to tear his eyes away. Leds doesn't seem to have noticed anything unusual; he just scratches at the back of his neck and then bumps Brandon with his hip to get him moving towards the showers.

Brandon's fully on automatic by that point, too self-conscious to do anything but keep talking, trying to pretend like he's not fixating, like everything is just normal. Pretending everything's normal means that he has to keep standing right by Leddy, too; well and truly inside his personal space, close enough that he fancies he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Acting like everything's just the same means Brandon has to look Leddy in the eye and listen to his easy responses, has to focus on his words and not on how Brandon's almost certain his mouth is just a little swollen, lips pinker than usual, like he's spent almost every minute between dinner and curfew the night before with his mouth on _someone_. With someone kissing his neck and worrying at the skin over his collarbones with their teeth.

If Brandon wasn't so jealous he'd probably be obviously and embarrassingly turned on, thinking about that. He's made it a whole two and a half months into the season before his carefully guarded repress-everything-and-don't-think-about-it plan has evaporated like so much smoke. He needs to get back to that not thinking about it thing soon, but without five minutes to himself to put together a more effective pep talk for himself than "oh shit oh shit stop thinking about it", Brandon's kind of struggling.

It's just so easy to look at Nick; he's right there, not even practically touching Brandon but actually touching him; just casual innocent brushes of his wrist as he reaches for the tap, or his hip or his shoulder knocking against Brandon's when he moves to get under the spray of water more squarely, because they've never had much in the way of personal space. Normally Brandon just doesn't think about that, but right then it's being reinforced more strongly than he's quite comfortable with. Nick tilts his head back into the water, eyes closed to keep the shampoo out, and Brandon's just weak enough to take advantage of that moment to really look at him, staring at the livid marks which stand out even more on wet skin under the bright white fluorescent lights in the shower. Fuck. Brandon is— just completely fucked.

He looks away before Leds opens his eyes again, is pretty sure he's managing to keep his expression neutral at least, but he has no idea what he's even been saying for the past couple of minutes. He's pretty sure it's innocuous but he's definitely not going to be able to remember any of it later. Hopefully he won't ask Leds the same question twice afterward or anything like that.

"Ugh, I think I'm done, shove over, Saader," Leddy says, and steps past Brandon, heading over to grab a towel.

"Kay," Brandon says, sort of lamely, but he doesn't really have anything else to add. Luckily, Leddy doesn't hang around or seem to be expecting him to say anything else, but Brandon's about to swallow his own tongue, just barely restraining the reaction he has to the belated realization that the marks on his collar weren't the only souvenirs Leds has picked up in Montreal.

There's a pretty clear bite mark just above the curve of his ass, too.

Brandon closes his eyes and considers trying to just stand there in the shower until he can actually pull himself together enough to stop staring at one of his friends like a creep. Probably someone would come along and yell at him to get moving before then, though, so he settles for a brief, futile fantasy about beating his head into the tiled wall until he feels better and adds some stern self-talk to follow.

He's done this before, he can just— get over all of this. And not just letting himself pathetically focus on whatever tiny flashes he gets of the possibility of something more is the first step.

* * *

Brandon manages pretty well to not think about it for a whole week or so afterward, and then he ends up on Leddy and Shawzy's couch after they win their rematch with the Bruins, an afternoon game that they manage to take in the shootout. They have a couple days off before their next game, a short roadie just through Detroit and Minnesota, which means Brandon's not really worrying about that yet, too busy being content with the win that afternoon, even if he'd been a frustrating zip on the scoreboard for a couple games now himself.

He tries not to worry too much about the scrap of conversation he’d heard as he was letting himself in, after running by his place first to change out of his suit and into something more comfortable. Apparently he’s got the hang of wiggling the key the right way in the lock that likes to stick on their front door now, because he can hear Andy and Leds talking quietly in the living room. Shawzy’s voice is clear and sincere, without the slightest hint of tease as he says, “—you should just tell him already, Leds. I’m sure he’ll be fine, too.”

Brandon wonders what they’re talking about — who they’re talking about — but he doesn’t find out, because as the door thuds closed behind him they both go abruptly silent, and when he kicks his shoes off and wanders into the room they both look vaguely guilty, which means they were almost certainly talking about him. He tries not to let it bother him; it’s not like he’s going to press them on it, they’ve all got enough shit on their plates right now without him eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound normal, and apparently he pulls it off, because Leds shoots Shawzy a relieved look and relaxes.

“You want a drink?” Andy asks, bouncing to his feet.

“Sounds good,” Brandon says, and even though he knows his way around their kitchen just as well as if he lived there, he lets Andy go get it for him, since apparently he’s bound and determined to do so. Brandon’s not gonna look a gift horse — gift beer? Whatever — in the mouth.

“Hey Leds,” he says, when the silence stretches on a little too long, broken only by the sounds of Andy in the kitchen, banging more things around than Brandon thinks has to be quite necessary.

“Uh, I think I’m gonna—” Nick says, picking up the mug from the side table at the other end of the couch and gesturing with it. “Just gonna top this up,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen in turn.

Brandon blinks a couple of times, but he doesn’t have more than a few seconds to dwell on Leds acting all squirrelly before Andy comes back in and hands him a beer, before taking the arm chair by the window, kicking his feet up on the coffee table which he's dragged closer to himself, and consequently out of comfortable reach for Brandon. Leddy wanders back in from the kitchen, a mug in his hands, although Brandon can't see steam coming off it or anything. It's been a little warmer over the last day or two sure, but it's still close to freezing outside, and if Brandon hadn't totally earned that beer — after getting smoked all afternoon by Bergeron at the dot, and getting hit by both Chara _and_ Lucic — he'd be drinking some of Andy's good tea just to keep his hands warm.

"You guys want to do anything tonight?" Leddy asks, settling on the other end of the couch, for lack of anywhere else to sit. He's not quite sitting next to Brandon, but they're not all that far away, either. Shawzy makes a face that Brandon can't quite read and just says, "Nah, quiet one in, I think."

"Saader?" Leddy asks, looking at him with one eyebrow raised. He looks so normal now that Brandon thinks he must’ve been imagining things before.

"Uh," Brandon says intelligently, and looks at Shawzy pleadingly; no help there, of course. "No plans. You had an idea?"

It's not that Brandon doesn't want to go out; he likes having fun as much as the next guy, but it's been a long week and he'd also be just as happy to stay home — or, well, at someone else's place — and watch a movie or something.

"Movie?" Leddy asks.

"Is there even anything good out?" Shawzy asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket like he's about to pull up the listings.

"Probably not," Leddy admits. "I was thinking just hitting netflix or whatever, though."

"Sounds good to me," Brandon says, after Shawzy doesn't say anything, humming quietly to himself as his fingers move over his phone screen; he's clearly gotten distracted by something on his screen, and Leds rolls his eyes and Brandon grins at him as they both notice that.

"You pick," Leddy says, and tosses the remote to Brandon, who fields it easily enough with one hand.

Brandon's as used to Shawzy's TV as he is his own by this point; he certainly spends enough time over there, although not quite to the point where Leds is threatening to make him pay rent, despite what Bollig claims. Not like Boller isn't over there almost as much either, anyway, although at least they can usually persuade him to cook for them. Brandon just orders takeout when the other two claim it's his turn.

Brandon sneaks a look over at Leddy while he pages through the movie menu; he's just looking contemplatively down at his mug, swishing the liquid around a few times before finishing it off, and Brandon has to look away when he licks his lips after swallowing a couple of times. His jeans feel a little tight all of a sudden, and he lets his head fall forward, pressing the cold bottle to his forehead for a long couple of seconds, willing himself to chill out again already. He's been doing just fine all week, hasn't done or said anything inappropriate, and he even managed to move slowly enough after practice and games that half the time Leddy was done in the showers before Brandon could follow, which meant he was at least fifty percent less likely to accidentally cop an eyeful of anything he shouldn't be looking at. Although congratulating himself for that just makes him wonder whether Leds still has those hickeys or if they've faded by now, which puts him back at square one, more or less.

He sighs to himself and then rolls his neck a few times, trying to stretch out the tense muscles, and also giving himself a pretty solid excuse for giving up on paging through netflix summaries.

"We could just watch the Hangover again," Shawzy suggests, and Brandon doesn't actually have any better ideas, so he says, "Sure," in unison with Leddy's "Sounds good to me," and finds that.

He should probably be less surprised than he is that he falls asleep again; it's been a long week, they had a hard game, and he didn't exactly get an afternoon nap since they were pretty much bang in the middle of their post-game interviews at that point. So by the time he wakes up to realize that the end credits are playing and he doesn't remember anything from the entire second half of the movie, all he can do is mentally shrug and hope that no one's drawn anything embarrassing on his face. They usually have an unspoken agreement that post-game hangouts are safe from that kind of pranking, but Brandon would usually rather be safe than sorry. When he sits up from the slouch he'd fallen into — and if his neck hadn't been particularly sore earlier it definitely is now — he can see that Shawzy's out cold too, snoring in the armchair with both dogs sprawled across his lap.

"Ah, at least one of you lives," Leddy says softly, pitching his voice so that it's low enough Brandon can hear him clearly, but that he's not disturbing Shawzy at all. "Good nap, sleeping beauty?"

"Aw, fuck you, I was tired," Brandon says, mostly on automatic, mostly not meaning it.

"No kidding," Leddy says, and reaches over to pat Brandon's shin mock-patronisingly.

As he looks down, Brandon can see that he seems to be under that pink afghan again; apparently that's just the go-to blanket in the living room at the moment, or Leddy's having a quiet laugh at Brandon's expense. But whatever, he's warm and comfortable, and still has just enough of a sleep-haze lingering to not be self-conscious, not worrying about how easy it is to just smile at Leds, not making himself break eye contact after a couple of seconds.

"So you didn't let Shawzy draw on my face or anything, right?" Brandon asks, struggling to sit up properly.

"Nah, he fell asleep before you did," Leddy says, and then he looks back over at Shawzy, an obviously fond expression on his face. "I took a bunch of photos of him with the dogs, though."

"Awesome," Brandon says. "Send them to me as well as Chaunette, huh?"

"You bet," Leddy says, and pulls his phone out again to, Brandon assumes, do just that.

Shawzy snores again, breaking the flow of their conversation, and Brandon has to look away from Leddy then, because otherwise both of them are going to start laughing, and that'll definitely wake Andy up.

"I got video, too," Leddy says, letting a hint of conspiratorial fervor into his tone. "You can't tell if it's the dogs snoring or him," and that's enough to make Brandon snort with laughter, helpless as he imagines both the video and the way that Shawzy's response to it is guaranteed to be entertaining in and of itself. That's enough to get Leddy to laugh at him in turn, and then he and Brandon are both cracking up, setting each other off every time they make eye contact, losing all hope of staying quiet enough to not disturb Shawzy.

"What, what'd I miss?" Shawzy asks, flailing back towards wakefulness with the same enthusiastic determination he approaches pretty much everything, narrowing his eyes at Brandon as, he likes to claim, the weaker link when it comes to getting information. Brandon is actually very good at keeping his own counsel, thanks very much Shawzy, but his best example of that is pretty much the number one topic he absolutely can't talk to Shawzy — or anyone else — about, so he's probably not going to win that argument any time soon.

"You're both dicks," Shawzy says, sitting up, but carefully enough that he doesn't disturb the dogs. "Hey, wait, no one wrote any shit on my face, right?" and he gives them both a suspicious look that sets Leds off again into gales of laughter, apparently so similar to the way Brandon had asked that he can't even explain why he's laughing for a good couple of minutes.

"So untrusting," Leddy says, shaking his head sadly, and Brandon just raises an eyebrow right back at Leds and says, "Hey, do you blame me?"

"Okay, fair," Leddy says, and grins at him, the really great smile that lights up his whole face and makes Brandon want to reconsider the benefits of having any self-control worth speaking of.

Yeah, Brandon's totally screwed.

* * *

Brandon's not actually all that invested in the Super Bowl this year; obviously he'll be watching because it's what everyone does, but he doesn't have strong feelings about the Broncos or the Seahawks, mostly he's just hoping it'll be a good game. They're on the road again, just like last year, and just like last year Brandon finds himself sprawled out in front of one of the TVs, Leddy on the couch beside him.

They'd lost to the Sharks the day before, and not even scoring on the power-play had been enough to actually get a win, in what seems like an almost endless string of just-losses, falling by one goal or in OT, almost but not quite good enough. It's wearing Brandon down, even though he's at least been scoring, three in the last few games; even though he knows they're still in pretty good shape. This funk can't last forever, but it sure doesn't make it any more pleasant to live through.

He slumps back against the back of the sofa, sliding down a little, legs crossed at the ankle.

"Tired?" Leddy asks him, as they wait for the next whistle.

"Yeah, kinda," Brandon says, although he's not really complaining; they're all in the same boat, and Leds had played easily five minutes more than he had, too.

"Three more games," Leddy says, and Brandon's counting down, too. They're not going to be home again any time soon, but at least they're less than a week away from a real vacation; sun and the beach and as much tequila as Brandon thinks will be a good idea. That's probably wishful thinking; any amount of tequila always seems like a good idea at the time, as Brandon is well aware. But he's looking forward to Cancun all the same.

He hears Shawzy before he sees him; he's got the BHTV camera guys following him, and he's narrating something as he walks. Brandon has a lot of respect for Shawzy's ability to monologue, but he's equally interested in seeing just how deep a hole the Broncos can dig for themselves, so he doesn't really look over until Shawzy's throwing himself down onto the couch with some vigor, landing half on Leddy and tilting him closer to Brandon in the process.

Andy's not just talking, he's got a microphone in hand, hamming it up to the best of his ability. Brandon can't help smiling at him, looking at Shawzy rather than the cameras, which should also keep him from looking too stilted. He's got a lot better at this kind of stuff over the last couple of years.

Shawzer's monologue by this point is, it turns out, less about the game itself — the Broncos are getting their asses kicked, which is probably not language the BHTV guys want them using, so Brandon can't exactly blame him — but more about the value of watching together as team bonding, or something like that. He seems set on using Leddy and Brandon as his examples, too, which Brandon can't exactly blame him for. They do hang out a lot. Also, playing along with him is going to be by far and away the lesser evil, as Brandon is well aware, so he just smiles at him, catches Leds' eye to check he's cool with it, and drawls something at Shawzy to agree.

Leds leans into him a bit more in response to that, and Brandon's not silly, he can read that invitation just fine. It’s obvious Leddy's happy to play along too, so Brandon wraps an arm around his neck and pulls Nick closer, tucked securely against Brandon's side. Shawzy just grins at both of them, open and easy and perfectly normal, appreciating the way they're backing him up here, and so he straightens up to say something else into the camera, doing the full on address-the-camera thing from the Office.

Brandon's not entirely sure what he's saying though; he's stopped paying much attention to Shawzy — although he's careful to keep the same easy smile on his face for the camera — because he's too busy letting himself really appreciate having Leds curled up with him like this. He's a warm and welcome weight against Brandon's side, solid and comforting, and he fits under Brandon's arm so well that it's easy to forget he's basically the same size as Brandon, solid and tall and well-built. Not that Brandon hasn't appreciated all of those facets of him at other times, too.

* * *

Getting to Cancun seems to take half the day, or at least that's how it feels to Brandon. They'd found direct flights out of Phoenix at least, which helps cut down on some of the increasing feeling Brandon has that he's spending half his life on airplanes, but it's still a long day. They'd had to be up earlier than anyone particularly wanted to be, especially on vacation, but they have no trouble checking in and Brandon — both Brandons, it turns out — manages to fall asleep pretty soon after takeoff and thus misses out on the entirety of a long-ass flight, and the fact apparently the in-flight entertainment system was broken. It's maybe unfair, but he's a little surprised that Leds and Shawzy didn't wake him and Boller up just for their own entertainment. Apparently Leds' iPad battery held out just long enough.

Brandon wakes up with maybe half an hour left in the flight, just before they start the descent, and Boller's still fast asleep, leaning hard against the wall from the window seat that he'd unapologetically claimed. Brandon's pretty impressed that he's sleeping deeply enough to continue tuning out the not-at-all quiet conversation Andy and Leds are having, arguing over something that Brandon can't quite follow. He'd say he needs a nap but that's pretty much what he just did, so instead he sits up enough that Leds looks over to shoot him a quick grin, his arm warm against Brandon's side, and Shawzy waves from the other side of the aisle, cheerful as ever.

"Can you even get jetlag on a trip this short?" Shawzy asks, and maybe that was what he and Leddy were arguing about; Brandon just blinks at them a few times and decides not to contribute anything until he's absolutely certain what he's getting himself into.

He's fallen into that trap more than once; he's definitely not agreeing to anything that anyone asks him five minutes after he's woken up, that's for sure. He's had to help Shawzy and Morin both move at least once by the cunning deployment of that trick, and he's pretty sure they didn't keep that information all that quiet. Although realistically the main problem is Rossy's big mouth and far-too-comprehensive knowledge of all of Brandon's weak spots.

"I don't think so," Leddy says, "But I'm sure you'll get over it fast."

Brandon tunes them out himself, and leans forward, looking around Bollig to see if there's any kind of view as they're landing. All he's seeing is a lot of ocean, which has the benefit of novelty, but isn't particularly scenic in and of itself. A few seconds later they're flying over a stretch of beach, and there's concrete and asphalt and buildings unrolling beneath them, laid out in the flat, open array that Brandon automatically classifies as typical airport facilities.

"I didn't mean me," Shawzy protests, and then there's a screech of tires touching down on the tarmac of the runway, so Brandon elbows Boller until he wakes up — significantly more gracefully than Brandon feels like he ever manages; he goes from dead to the world to fully conscious in about three seconds flat — and then they all wait impatiently for the plane to taxi up to the gate, and for everyone else around them to get their bags down from the overhead and slowly shuffle off the plane.

The impatience turns out to be a theme for the day. Brandon's still sleepy in the shuttle-bus that picks them up and takes them to the hotel, and getting in to the lobby to find their rooms aren't quite ready yet doesn't exactly help to wake him up either. It's hot enough outside — especially in comparison to Chicago — that he's sweating, even in the Phoenix-appropriate shirt he'd thrown on first thing in the morning, and it's humid enough that Brandon also wants to either just stretch out and nap in front of one of the ubiquitous fans or throw himself into a pool or the ocean as soon as possible.

"Let's go get a drink," Leddy says, which is an acceptable third option which had not actually occurred to Brandon, especially since they can at least leave their bags with the front desk while they go over to the bar.

It's not much past midday, but, "The sun has to be over a yardarm somewhere," Boller says reasonably, and Brandon says, "Hear, hear," and gets talked into doing a tequila shot before they even look at the beer they have on tap. It's probably a good idea to start as they mean to go on, he figures.

The world is pleasantly fuzzy at the edges by the time they can check into their rooms, and Brandon's less tired by that point, or at least more awake. Or possibly just doing a better job of ignoring anything but the immediate problems at hand. The hotel staff hand over four keycards and send them up to the seventh floor, where they've got two adjoining rooms.

"Dibs," Shawzy says as they step off the elevator, without even pausing for a breath. He grabs Boller with his free hand, not even stopping to discuss it, and hauls him into the first room, as Brandon stands in the hall laughing at them, and leaves Leddy to get his foot in before the door can close behind them, leaning in to the room to remind him, "Hey, Andy, can we have the other keycards?"

"Oh right," Shawzy says, after they've waited for him to claim his bed — closest to the door, just like always — and dump his suitcase haphazardly beside it.

He walks back over, hands Leddy both of the other keycards, and then starts digging through his bag for swimming trunks. Shawzy is apparently wasting no time.

Brandon follows Leds in to the other room once he gets the door open, wordlessly takes the keycard Leddy offers him and sticks it in the back pocket of his jeans. He'll probably remember to bring it if they go down to the beach or the pool — Brandon looks out over the balcony and mentally corrects that to 'any of the pools'.

"Hey, there's like a swim-up bar," Shawzy says, and Brandon blinks before turning to see that, of course, Shawzy's already unlocked and propped open the door between their two rooms, clearly ready to go again in trunks, sunglasses and an incredibly douchey hat. Brandon thinks he even smells sunscreen, which is impressively practical for Shawzy when he's this many drinks in.

"Yeah, give us a minute," Leddy says calmly, dropping his suitcase on one bed — after looking over to check if Brandon had a preference, which he totally doesn't, just shrugging and waiting for Leds to sort himself out first.

"This feels weirdly like being on vacation with my family," Brandon says out loud, perching on the edge of his bed, and looking over through the door into Shawzy and Bollig's room.

"Yeah, and you two are the boring parents," Bollig replies, without even missing a beat. Brandon mimes being stabbed in the heart, because c'mon, uncalled for.

"Fuck off, Boller," Leddy says cheerfully, and then turns to look at Brandon again, raising an eyebrow. "Beach, Saader? Or are you gonna nap again?"

"So, so, so old," Andy says, like he doesn't nap almost as much as Brandon does.

"Ugh, fine, give me a minute to change," Brandon says, rolling his eyes theatrically, enjoying the way it makes Leddy grin at him in solidarity.

"We're gonna party so fucking hard," Shawzy says definitively, and Brandon thinks that might be over-ambitious, for today at least, but he stands up and fist-bumps him anyway. The proprieties have to be observed, and all that.

* * *

They don't, as it turns out, party hard that first day. It's more like they spend a couple of hours floating between the bigger pool, the bar, and the deck chairs scattered around the pool area. Most of the loungers are tucked under shady trees, but it’s still more than hot enough even out of direct sunlight. Brandon decides he's done with the pool after an hour or two, or at least that the pitchers of margaritas are more immediately enticing. Shawzy and Boller seem to have come to much the same conclusion, and the three of them wind up cheerfully sloshed, taking possession of a group of chairs around a low wooden table. Leddy laughs at them a lot, but either he's drinking slower or Brandon's gotten really unobservant, because he doesn't seem sloppy or slow the way Brandon feels, or stumbling over his words like Boller kind of is. Brandon hasn't got this close to solidly trashed since right after they'd won the Cup, probably, or maybe even Saginaw, and right then, he's enjoying it; warm and totally relaxed.

He falls asleep again before too long, tipping his hat down to cover his face, towel crumpled up underneath him. He's still drunk when he wakes up, feels like he's moving at half-speed, and there's a certain degree of looseness to his muscles that he only ever feels when he's drunk or completely fucked out. Since he has clear memories of a lot of alcohol and definitely hasn't got laid in far too long, it doesn't take a lot of mental acuity to figure it's the former. When he sits up, it's obvious that Bollig and Shaw have either gone back to their room or left in search of food or better company. Brandon figures they'll turn up later, it's not like the resort is all that big. Leddy is still stretched out on the lounger beside his though, eyes half-open, idly people-watching or daydreaming or something; Brandon can see his gaze shifting from the people around the pool to those walking past. Brandon can’t help but notice the way his trunks are plastered to his thighs, beads of water still sticking to his skin making it clear that he's been enjoying the water too, maybe just got out. Maybe that's what woke Brandon up.

He doesn't quite realize he's staring until Leddy's mouth crooks up in an easy grin, noticing he's awake. Leds catches his eyes, raises an eyebrow, and Brandon feels himself flush a little under the direct scrutiny. He hopes his face isn't doing anything too embarrassing, and that the faint blush he can feel creeping over his cheeks is hidden beneath the effects of the sun and the tequila and his inadvertent mid-afternoon nap. It's probably not all that obvious that his gaze was fixed on the long muscles of Leddy's thighs, even more noticeable under thin, wet swimming trunks than his normal jeans or slacks; and it's not like Brandon was obviously looking anywhere, uh, else.

He has to stop dwelling on that thought after a couple of seconds, because it's also not like his trunks hide a whole lot, and Brandon doesn't want to be that creepy dude by the pool with an obvious hard-on. He sits up — with some difficulty, _definitely_ still tipsy at the very least — and scratches his head, making a face at how gross his hair feels from the salt and whatever other chemicals are in the water.

Leddy's straight up laughing at him by this point, not even trying to hide it. Brandon could swear he'd had as much to drink as he had, but either he's hiding it better or his metabolism is double-shifting.

"You are fucked up, dude," Leddy says cheerfully. "You wanna go get food or something?"

"I want a shower first," Brandon says, not stopping to think about it too hard. That'll wake him up and sober him up a bit.

"Yeah, we can go back to the room," Leddy says. "Shawzy and Boller wanted to go nap somewhere with actual pillows," that sounds like a direct quote, Brandon thinks, "So we can figure out the game plan or whatever."

"Uh, yeah," Brandon says, swinging his feet onto the ground and stuffing them back into his flip-flops. "Sounds good."

It's not all that late in the afternoon, and it's still very bright out; Brandon's glad of his sunglasses, squinting a bit even with them on. He's with it enough to remember which one their room is, and even to dig the keycard out of his back pocket to let them in.

The door between the rooms is closed over, although not locked. When Brandon tries the handle it does turn, and when he puts his ear to the door he can hear both Boller and Shawzy snoring even from there, Jesus. He's suddenly very glad to be sharing with Leds, for more than just the usual reasons.

"Glad they managed to quarantine themselves," Brandon jokes, stepping out of his flip-flops and staring at the mess of clothes on his bed. Dumping out his suitcase to try and find his trunks earlier had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

"Well, you have to put up with Shawzy on the road and I do at home," Leddy grins, "It's only fair Bollig gets a turn."

Boller's probably the most laid-back guy on the team when Andy is being outright annoying rather than — he claims — endearingly so; Brandon's not worried at all about the two of them getting on well enough while sharing space for a week. He is a little on edge about sharing with Leds, but that's for— very different reasons.

"Shower?" Leddy reminds him, after Brandon takes another couple of seconds just staring at the disaster that is his bed.

"I'm on it," Brandon say, and fishes shorts and another t-shirt out of the pile.

"You're not gonna fall and die in there, right?" Leddy asks, as Brandon's leaning in to the shower to get the water running, and when he turns around Leds is standing right there in the doorway, looking actually concerned. "I don't wanna have to explain that to the front office."

"Nah, I'll be fine," Brandon assures him, trying not to feel the tiniest bit trapped. Leddy just gives him a long look, and Brandon has the unsettling feeling that Nick can tell just how much his heart-rate's kicked up, standing this close, warm and sleepy and just drunk enough to really fuck with his impulse control.

"Okay," Nick says, still not moving, and fuck, if he's going to stand there and  _watch_ then Brandon really is going to embarrass himself.

"Look," Brandon says, reckless and a little desperate, "If you hear a thud come rescue me, but seriously, it's fine."

He shoots Nick a quick smile after that, ducking his chin so he's looking up at him, and for whatever reason Leddy's just as susceptible to that as most people he's had to convince that yes, he's old enough or smart enough or tough enough, so he caves, stepping back into the room and closing the door behind himself.

Brandon steps into the tub without waiting for the water to warm up — it's hot enough out that a cold shower feels just as good, and it has the benefit of being that much more bracing. He shoves his trunks down over his hips and thighs, lets them fall into a soaking heap around his ankles; that has to be good enough to rinse them, he figures, and — after a second's thought — he wraps a cautious hand around the side of the shower divider to secure his balance before stepping out of them. He kicks them to the back of the tub, figures he can hang them up later, but that's about as much practical thought as he has time for.

He's got privacy and opportunity now, and he's not going to waste that, just gets his hand right on his dick, jerking off with a single-minded intensity. He's been half-hard all afternoon, it feels like; not just the close proximity to Leds, although that's a lot of it, but there's also been a lot of attractive people not wearing a whole lot, and Brandon hasn't hooked up with anyone in months.

He lets himself think about the girl by the pool in the eye-searingly pink bikini, generously curved and grinning crookedly at her friends, an equally-pink cocktail in hand. The tall guy in the pool with close-cropped hair, a lot of ink and, Brandon has to admit, a more than passing resemblance to a younger Razor. Brandon had definitely appreciated that view. There'd been a couple of girls sitting on the edge of the pool chatting, holding hands and probably together, which would make for a pretty picture, sure, but he keeps coming back to thinking about Leds, stretched out on the lounger beside his; Leds, watching him so closely. Leds, following him into the bathroom and — abruptly impatient, Brandon gives up on even trying not to think about it — Leds, grinning at him, inviting, _accepting_.

It's so easy to imagine, Brandon thinks, what if instead of leaving Leds had stepped closer, followed Brandon into the shower, all that warm skin pressed up against him. Brandon could shove Nick's shorts off, too; lean in and taste the tequila and salt in his mouth, get a hand on his ass and his other hand on his dick, make him bite Brandon's lip while Brandon jerks him off. Or he could push him back against the cool white tiles and get on his knees, suck him off till his jaw aches and his eyes tear up, until he doesn't even notice the water running down his back or into his eyes and mouth. Brandon's panting by then, harsh breaths in and out through his mouth, and his face feels hot. He closes his eyes tighter and leans into the cool spray of water, letting his hand move faster on his dick.

He could— Leds could push him against the wall and rub off against him, breathing hot into the side of his neck, and then they could go for seconds in bed, fucking until the headboard rattles off the wall, pissing off the— fuck, the people on the other side, and Brandon suddenly remembers that oh, yeah, that's Shawzy and Boller on the other side of the wall. That's kind of the opposite of hot, he's not that much of an exhibitionist. It's not enough to kill his boner but it gives him pause for a second, and he has to psych himself back up, quickly rebuild the fantasy of Leddy spread out on the bed, all long clean lines and broad shoulders and a great ass. That's enough to get Brandon there, grip tightening as he strokes himself through the last of it, till he's shaky and oversensitive, all evidence washed away as he stands in the running water for a long minute afterward.

He probably should get moving; either Leddy's going to worry he's passed out and come in to rescue him — and wouldn't that be fun, Leds busting in to find him with his hand on his dick still — or he's going to have a very accurate guess about why Brandon's been in the shower too long, and while Brandon certainly wouldn't begrudge another dude his private time, it's probably kind of rude. Especially if Leds has to pee any time soon, or whatever.

Brandon wraps a towel around his hips, wipes the mirror off long enough to check his reflection quickly; he looks normal, nothing begging a second look. He dries off enough to get dressed, doesn't bother doing anything with his hair; it might drip down the back of his neck for a minute or two but it'll dry off fast enough. When he walks back into the room Leddy's stretched out on his own bed, flipping through the room service menu idly. He glances over at Brandon, like he's checking he's done, and when Brandon moves to start shoving clothes back into his suitcase he gets up to paw through his own bag.

Brandon's stuffing the last couple of shirts back into a corner of his bag — he could swear this all fit fine before — when he hears the bathroom door click shut behind him, and a few seconds later the water starts up again. He's feeling a lot more clear-headed after his shower, ready to start thinking about some form of food after all.

He digs his tablet out of his backpack and sits down in the armchair by the sliding door to their balcony to see if he can get the wifi going, he can kill a bit of time that way. He distracts himself well enough fucking around on the internet that he doesn't notice how much time has passed until Leddy's emerging from the bathroom himself, hair slicked back and wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt, leaving it untucked over his shorts. It's a good look for him, although Brandon's at least got enough self-control back to just glance quickly in his direction before turning his attention back to his tablet.

"We should probably go wake the other two up, huh?" Leddy says, and Brandon can't disagree. They'll screw up their body clocks even worse if they sleep too long, and Brandon doesn't want to just assume either of them would have remembered to set an alarm.

"We'd be terrible friends if we didn't," Brandon agrees. "Although, you know, I have an idea," he adds, picking up the bottle of water by his bed and a plastic hotel cup, and raising an eyebrow in Leddy's direction. Leddy's picking up what he's putting down for sure, because he grins and just says, "Exactly."

So they'll wake up Boller and Shawzy up, but no one says they have to be nice about it. Brandon's well aware they'll probably pay for it later — a 6am room service breakfast seems likely, if wholly predictable — but it's worth it for the absolute indignation on Shawzy's face when he sits bolt upright and spluttering after Brandon's flicked the better part of a cup of water onto his face. From a safe distance at the foot of the bed, of course. Leddy's been doing much the same to Bollig, although he's a deeper sleeper and doesn't rouse all the way until Andy yells.

"You're fucking dicks," Shawzy grumbles.

"Mix in a water, eh?" Boller says, narrowing his eyes at them, and Brandon takes a prudent step back towards the connecting door.

"We thought you'd want to get food," Leddy says brightly, and as Boller sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, he and Brandon both step back through the connecting door. Brandon locks their side as they close it, just in case.

"They're probably going to get us for that," Brandon says, not terrifically concerned right then and there.

His phone buzzes then, and when Brandon picks it up it's to see that he's got a message from Andy; a picture with his hair standing on end, his brows drawn together , and both middle fingers raised at eye level in a way that looks a little alarming when paired with the bared-teeth grin. He's clearly got Boller to take it.

He shows it to Leddy, who snorts, and agrees, "Yeah. They're definitely going to go for revenge."

Shawzy pounds on their door maybe ten minutes later — apparently he and Bollig had gotten cleaned up before their nap, because otherwise this is record time even for them to be ready — and yells for them to get moving, he's starving. His volume suggests that at least he's not hungover, which is probably for the best, Brandon thinks, because it would sort of suck to spend their first full day in Mexico with terrible hangovers. Then again, there's a whole night ahead of them still.

Brandon's careful opening the door, just in case, he's seen the bucket-of-water trick a few times too many not to be cautious, but Shawzy and Boller are just lurking in the corridor looking a little sharper than usual, dressed up enough to go out for a meal, and not looking like payback is on the immediate itinerary. Brandon figures he can relax at least until tomorrow, most likely.

* * *

They decide to go with the least required effort for dinner and just hit one of the restaurants in the hotel; the dress code seems to be a step above 'beach wear', but not by much; there's plenty of people that Brandon can see looking around the room who've just thrown a shirt or whatever on over top of bathing suits, and it's well-lit and noisy with the size of the early dinner crowd.

Brandon feels more or less back to normal by the time they're done eating, which of course just means that they're in prime position to start drinking again.

"Bar?" Bollig suggests, and Brandon says "Yeah," in unison with Leds and Shawzy. Good to see that they're all on the same level.

They stick to beer this time, and when it's Brandon's turn to go up to the bar for a refill he comes back to their table with it in time to catch Bollig giving Leddy serious grief for, apparently, being completely oblivious to a girl trying to catch his eye.

"She's into you, go for it, man," Shawzy is saying, elbow planted firmly in Leddy's ribcage, and doing something disturbing with his eyebrows.

"I thought we were hanging out?" Leddy says, trying to distract him, but Shawzy's a dog with a bone sometimes, and apparently he is really determined to get someone to hook up.

"Me and Boller are hanging out," Shawzy says, like Leds is slow on the uptake, "But you and Saader should get some, on account of how you're young and single and I guess not terrible looking."

"Fuck you, we're both hotter than you," Brandon says, feeling like someone has to defend their honor, or something.

"Hey, who has girlfriends again?" Shawzy says.

"It really doesn't sound better when you put it that way," Boller says, long-suffering. "But yeah, if we're having a boy's weekend down here then at least someone should be getting laid." Boller sounds a little testy about that, and okay, Brandon figures it's probably not ideal to have a week long vacation away from your girlfriend, especially since Boller and Amy have only been together for a couple months. But he's still clearly getting some more often than Brandon is, so his sympathy is, you know. Limited.

"Please do not be my wingman," Leds says, giving Shawzy a firm look. "No one deserves that."

"Oh fuck off, I'm a great wingman," Andy says, clutching his heart like Leddy's mortally wounded him. "Saader, tell him."

Brandon has actually picked up a few times when Shawzy's around, but sometimes it's in spite of, rather than because of. "I'm not getting into this," Brandon says diplomatically, and then tops off all of their glasses, pouring carefully because apparently no one's grown out of laughing like they're still teenagers when it comes to jokes about head.

"So, you see anyone you like the look of, Saader?" Boller asks, getting back to the matter at hand.

"Maybe," he says neutrally, looking around the room with intent for the first time. There's a few people who're attractive, for sure, but it would probably be kind of a dick move to pick someone up when he's hung up on someone else.

Or… maybe it would help.

Shawzy gets distracted pretty easily — the beer helps, obviously — and he and Boller and Leds get a little too into the discussion of which golf course they should try to hit on this trip, since apparently there are more than a few options. Brandon doesn't mind golf, but he's not that invested in it, he'll just go along with whatever they want to do.

He's halfway through his drink when he meets the gaze of one of the girls at another table near theirs. She's with a mixed group, six or seven guys and girls, most of them clearly coupled up and about as handsy as they can be in a public area. She's fiddling with the straw of her drink — another brightly colored cocktail from the drinks menu, with three umbrellas, a cherry and a slice of pineapple on the side; either the bartender's also a big fan or she's been collecting them — and glancing around the the room, and her smile broadens easily when she catches Brandon looking back.

She's definitely pretty; dark-eyed and dark-haired, with a cute unevenly layered bob, solidly built and curvy and probably, if Brandon is any judge of people sitting on bar stools, fairly tall, especially for a woman. She looks naggingly familiar, enough that Brandon finds himself almost staring at her face for longer than is probably polite, and it takes until she raises an ironic eyebrow in his direction for him to place her.

He's lost track completely of whatever it is that the other three are talking about, and frankly he doesn't care all that much. He's about to get up and go see if she's interested in at least talking to him when she beats him to the punch, standing up — definitely tall — and walking towards their table with an easy stride. Brandon sneaks a look at her legs; tanned and long and well-muscled, just wearing blue flip-flops with an huge sunshine-yellow daisy over the toe.

His eyes are caught momentarily by the glitter of the bright blue glass pendant dangling between her breasts, and her dress is cut low enough that Brandon feels pretty confident in guessing how great she'd look naked. When he manages to remind himself that he's staring and being rude, it's just in time to look up and catch her grinning right at him; apparently he is completely obvious, and just as apparently, she doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi," she says, stopping just by their table, and Brandon doesn't even both looking to see what Shawzy and Boller and Leds are making of this, just tilts his head to the side a little and says, "Hey," in response.

"Want to buy me a drink?" She asks, flashing him another broad smile, and Brandon says, "Yeah," pats his pocket to check he actually does have his wallet, and then gets up to walk her over to the bar. Thankfully, none of his friends decide to comment, or at least if they do it's not loud enough for either of them to hear.

She orders a tequila shot, raises an eyebrow at him until he holds up two fingers for the bartender, and they toast each other with the shotglasses before throwing them back. She catches him grimacing as he swallows; the taste doesn't exactly mix well with the beer he'd been drinking, but all she does is give him a rueful grin that makes him suspect that she's just had a similar experience.

"I'm Dana," she says, holding out her hand to shake, oddly formal considering they've already done a shot together and Brandon has ditched his friends to talk to her.

"Brandon," he says, and then adds, wanting to prove he's been paying attention, thank you, "I remember you from earlier, right? Pink bikini, sitting on the side of the pool?"

She licks her lips — he can't help but watch; her lipstick is as brightly pink as her bathing suit had been, and it's making Brandon think really filthy things, which he needs to put the brake on since all they're doing is talking — and gives him another smile, eyes bright, clearly pleased. "Good memory," she says. "I'm impressed."

"You're very memorable," Brandon says, which despite his best efforts comes out sounding like the worst kind of line, and this time she's laughing at him, and not with him; low and warmly amused. "I mean, uh. I noticed you." Now is not the time to think about his thoughts in the shower, either, he reminds himself. Play it at least slightly cool.

"Want to sit down?" she asks, and Brandon agrees easily, follows her to a table closer to the corner of the room, where it's not quite so brightly lit, and, as a bonus, he can't actually see his friends and distract or second-guess himself. He's talking to a hot girl, that should be everything he's focusing on right then.

They talk easily enough; she's smart and quick, and doesn't seem inclined to let Brandon get away with any sort of vagueness; he supposes it's all too easy for people to claim to be something they're not on vacation like this, he just doesn't want to trade on the whole professional athlete thing since it's obvious enough she doesn't recognize him. If he's getting laid, Brandon would like it to be on his own demonstrated merits, and not just because he technically has a six figure salary. That might be seven, some day.

"Uh, I play hockey," he says, when she's pushed him to be a bit more specific about what he does. "Professionally? I'm here with a couple of teammates over our mid-season break."

"That's cool," Dana says, unflustered, interested enough but not in a way that sets off any alarm bells for him. "I mean, it's obvious you work out a lot," she gives him another look, this one tracking from his thighs up to his biceps before meeting his eyes again, definitely appreciating what she sees.

"You too," Brandon says, giving her a similar look. He hazards a guess. "Track and field?"

"Shot put," she says, "Good guess." There's a pause while Brandon tries to think of something else to say, and then Dana just adds, "If you want to make a crack about balls here, I can promise you I have heard them all before."

"I'm good," Brandon assures her. "Uh, so how long are you here?" It's kind of lame, defaulting back to that level of small talk, but Brandon's stuck for anything else to say.

"Tomorrow and the day after," Dana says easily. "I'm here with friends as well, uh, obviously, but they're all," she shrugs eloquently, and Brandon can fill in the rest of that sentence for himself just fine.

"Sick of being the fifth wheel?" he asks, and she says, "God yes," with some fervor. "Although at least Jaime and Brad hooking up means I have a room to myself, now."

Brandon's not sure if that's an invitation, but he would really like it to be.

"Uh," he starts to say, swallowing around a suddenly dry throat. "Do you— um, would you like to get out of here?"

She gives him a considering look, and Brandon tries not to hold his breath. It'd be silly to be nervous about this; it's a casual hook-up at most, a one night stand on vacation like thousands of other people his age do every year.

"Come here for a second?" she says, and Brandon leans in obediently, lets her get a hand on his face, her palm warm against his jaw, thumbnail scraping over the stubble from where he'd done a really half-assed job shaving. She tilts her head up to kiss him, soft and sweet and slow, and Brandon closes his eyes, lets himself be guided by her reactions. The kiss stays sweet for a long moment, and Brandon raises a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, sneaking a quick glance as he does, and her eyelashes are dark and so, so long up close.

"Mmm, not bad," she says, when they do finally break apart, with enough of a tease in her tone that he can tell she means it.

"Up to scratch?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, joking back.

That's when Dana seems to make up her mind, nodding decisively, and letting her hand come to rest on his knee, thumb tucking into the crease behind it, warm against his bare skin. "Yeah. That sounds great. You've got condoms, right?"

Brandon feels his cheeks go hot, because despite the fact he spends most of his everyday life surrounded by guys in their late teens to early thirties, this is still not a conversation he's used to having in public.

"Oh, yeah. Definitely."

"Awesome," Dana says, and stands up. "I'll just tell my friends we're heading out, did you need to—?"

Brandon turns his head to look back at the table he'd come from, Leds and Boller and Shawzy ostensibly deep in conversation, none of them even sparing a glance in his direction. He doesn't buy it at _all_.

"Uh, I think they already know," he says, and it's reassuring when she just laughs again, curling her hand around his wrist to lead him out of the bar after a quick stop by the table where her friends all seem to be playing some kind of drinking game that involves a lot of giggling and more groping than Brandon would be totally comfortable with in public.

* * *

Brandon can't say that he's looked at his watch in a while, so he's not entirely certain how much time he spends in Dana's room. It's long enough for them to enjoy each other's company, and the privacy is also a nice change, especially after well over a week on the road before the break.

He kisses her goodnight before getting up to get dressed again; Dana had offered the spare bed if he wanted to stay the night, but Brandon figures he should probably crawl back to his own bed before the next morning, if only so that Leds isn't facing Shawzy's inevitable revenge alone. He also can't help but notice she looks a little relieved as well when he says thanks, but no. They've had a good time, sure, and Brandon definitely wouldn't turn down another few hours with her, but she's heading home in two days time, still at school over in Wisconsin, and apparently neither of them have done the whole casual hook-up thing often enough to not be a little awkward afterward.

"I had a great time, thank you," Brandon says, and leans in to kiss her one more time as she sits up, the sheets tangled around her, tucked under her arms which leaves her back bare under his hands, the curves of her breasts obvious through the fabric, her body warm against his.

"Me too," Dana says, and they'd left the lights on, so her satisfied smirk is very obvious when Brandon straightens up. He can't deny it, that's satisfying as hell.

It's well and truly dark out when Brandon ventures back outdoors; Dana's room is in a different block of the hotel than theirs are, and while the air hasn't cooled down all that much it's still pleasant, and plenty of people still moving around the resort, although he's probably one of the more sober ones now. He enjoys the short walk and finds his way back to their room without any difficulty.

Brandon pauses for a second in the hall, making sure his hand is steady before he slips the keycard into the reader; there's not really much more that gives away a late return to a shared hotel room than fumbling with the door lock, he's been woken up that way himself more than once, back with the Spirit and — much less regularly — with the IceHogs.

He catches the door with his hand after he's inside and lets it shut carefully, quietly, and gives himself a minute for his eyes to adjust before walking over towards his bed. Once he can see well enough to navigate the room it's clear that all his caution was completely unnecessary, because the room's empty, Leddy's bed still made and unrumpled, the pillows neatly stacked at the head.

"Huh," Brandon says under his breath, and then shrugs and flips the light on. He has to blink a couple of times, but then busies himself changing into something light to sleep in, brushing his teeth, stretching out the faint ache in his jaw.

The sound-proofing is about as good — ie, virtually non-existent — in their room as it is in most hotel rooms Brandon spends time in, so he stops mid-stride when he hears a noise from the other side of the connecting door. When he stops to listen, he can clearly hear Boller snoring again, and maybe Andy, too, which is— interesting. He doesn't let himself wonder too much about what Leds is doing if Shawzy and Boller are back in their room and fast asleep already; for all Brandon knows he's off hustling pool in one of the bars or watching something on one of the big screen TVs.

Luckily he can't really hear much from the room next door by the time he's ready to go to sleep or at any rate, there's not enough noise to keep him awake. Or maybe Boller's just rolled over some time in the last five minutes and spared them all. Brandon's heard that there are actually some hotels out there that actually have decent insulation between the rooms, but he's sure never stayed in one that he's noticed. And that's a thought he should perhaps have had earlier, because he and Dana were definitely not quiet, whoops.

Brandon crawls into bed, stretching out, enjoying the cool sheets against his skin, trying to get comfortable. He's just about to sit up and shamelessly steal a pillow from Leddy's bed — the hotel pillows are kind of flat — when the door creaks open again. He's still got the bedside lamp on, so there's no point in pretending like he's been asleep and giving Leds the business about 'waking him up'.

"Oh," Leds says, looking a little surprised to see him, although Brandon can't tell if that's 'at all' or 'still awake'. He goes hot and cold all over for a moment, realizing that maybe _Leds_ had expected him to be out all night, maybe he wants to bring someone back to their room, and fuck, Brandon knows plenty of guys who've hooked up with a roommate right there in the room, asleep or faking or actively watching, but he doesn't think he could handle that at all well; he'd have to excuse himself, and now that he's in bed he doesn't particularly want to move again any time soon. It's a momentary panic, though, because after that first split-second it's obvious that the door's closed behind him and Leds is the only one there. "Hey," he says, and walks over to his own bed, shrugging out of his shirt, the buttons coming apart as he tugs at them, not bothering to undo them properly. Brandon should definitely not be noticing that.

Fuck, Brandon just got off like half an hour ago; he should be passed out cold now, not starting to get a little turned on again. He's got it bad.

"Hi," Brandon says cautiously, not wanting to give too much of himself away. "Good night?"

Leddy gives him an easy smile, closed-mouthed, cheeks dimpling ever so slightly. "Pretty good."

Brandon can tell from his voice and the easy way he's moving that he's probably a little sauced still, not drunk-drunk, but not exactly wholly sober. Happy-drunk, if he's guessing.

Without adding anything further, Leds turns to go over to the luggage stand where he's set his bags down, bends over to dig through it before unzipping his shorts and shoving them down.

Brandon shouldn't even be looking, and he's not intending to stare, but— "Jesus, Leds," he says involuntarily as he glances over; Leddy has red lines stretching across his back from shoulder blades to hips, what looks like a hickey on the upper slope of his ass — and that just makes Brandon think back to last month in Montreal, and fuck, he shouldn't know this much about what one of his teammates apparently likes in bed, even if they are good friends. Even if he wants to be the one leaving those marks on Nick.

"Oh," Leddy says, turning to give Brandon a quizzical look, the tips of his ears going red as he works out what Brandon's reacting to, his hand rubbing over his mouth and chin in what Brandon has no trouble as identifying as his slightly-embarrassed-but-pleased look, the same way he looks when he scores _on_ the ice.

Now that he's closer to both Brandon and to the light source, Brandon can also see more marks, pink and red against the pale skin of Leddy's throat, stippled over his collarbone. Just the same as every time Brandon had hooked up with Vince when he hadn't shaved for a while, and now it's Brandon's face going hot, his breath stuttering deep in his chest for the split-second it takes to recognize the faint marks, which almost look like they're starting to fade right in front of Brandon's eyes, what the fuck.

That's some pretty obvious beard burn, Brandon thinks, very calmly.

Which means that Leds has been kissing someone with pretty serious facial hair, which means that Leds definitely hooks up with guys, that— Brandon really fucking needs to say something before this gets weird. He's not sure that Leds is sober enough to realize that Brandon's being weird, but the last thing he wants is for Leddy to think he has a problem with it. If possible, he'd like Leds to stay blissfully ignorant of the fact that Brandon's put two and two together and got 'probably bisexual', but that ship has probably sailed. It's at least pulled up anchor and making a pretty solid effort at heading for the high seas while Brandon sits there dumbly, that's for sure.

"Guess I didn't really need to ask," Brandon jokes, hoping he's hiding how unsettled he feels.

"How about you?" Leddy asks, giving Brandon a long look, like he's trying to read Brandon's evening from the set of his shoulders and the angle of his lips, the way he moves and breathes. "You have fun?"

He doesn't want to go into too much detail, doesn't usually kiss and tell, or at least not specifically, not when people know exactly who he's been with. Especially since he has to be necessarily vague about some of what he's done in bed when it comes to talking to people who don't know he sleeps with guys too. But even if he wasn't stupidly attracted to Leds, they've always been good enough friends that Brandon would rather talk to him than not. And as much as Brandon would still — if he's honest, and it's got to be close to three in the morning, which means he's going to be — be perfectly happy to jump Leds right then and there, he did have a damn good night.

"Dana's nice," he says, after a moment.

Leddy raises an eyebrow, and Brandon reads that easily enough as 'Duh'.

"And really hot," Brandon adds, thinking about how good she'd looked, pushing him back into the mattress, body curling over his, her skin slippery hot and smooth against his.

"Well, yeah," Leddy says. "We noticed."

Brandon narrows his eyes at that, and Leddy holds up both hands, gives him a 'whoa' gesture. "Sorry, sorry. So are you still up for golf tomorrow, or are we a man down?"

"Golf sounds fine," Brandon says. "She's great, but it was— just a one night thing, you know?"

He feels stupid the second the words are out of his mouth; Leds clearly knows exactly what a one night thing looks like, considering his had wrapped up probably minutes after Brandon's. God, Shawzy's going to be insufferable tomorrow.

Which— wait.

"Uh, when did Shawzy and Boller head off?" Brandon asks delicately.

Leddy gives him a long look that has Brandon reevaluating his estimation of sobriety all the way back to 'not drunk in the slightest'; he feels like every thought he's having must be written all over his face.

Leds walks back over to his bed, sitting down on the side so he's facing Brandon, hands loose and open on his thighs, careful to make eye contact. Brandon sits up a little straighter, tugging the sheet over his legs, letting it pool around his waist.

"I think they went back to the room pretty soon after Matt hit on me," he says eventually. "Boller was definitely starting to flag by then, and I think Shawzy was just too stubborn to be the first one to tap out for the night."

"Matt, huh," Brandon says, feeling like his tongue is too big for his mouth. Why is he being weird about this; it's not like he hasn't seen guys hook up plenty, it's not like he hasn't done it himself, fuck. _Fuck_.

"Yeah," Leddy says, "You're not- this is okay, right? You're not freaking out over there or anything?" He frowns, brows drawing together, blinking faster than usual as he tries to read Brandon's expression. Brandon has no fucking idea what his face is doing right now, he just hopes it's nothing awful.

"Of course it's okay," Brandon says, and then takes a deep breath. Nick's been upfront with him, Brandon owes him honesty in return, if nothing else. "It'd be pretty hypocritical of me if it wasn't," he says, quietly, and the words seem so much bigger than that in their quiet room.

"Oh," Leddy says. " _Oh._ " Brandon can't quite read his tone.

"Yeah," Brandon says, and looks down at his lap. His hands are twisted in the sheet, which he doesn't really remember doing, but now that he's paying attention he still can't quite stop fidgeting. He wants to say, 'I'd wondered,' or if he's really brave, maybe even, 'I was hoping', but neither of those seems appropriate right now; against the code and too much pressure for right then. It's not like the fact Leddy's into dick even means that he's ever looked at Brandon that way, he knows himself well enough to be wary of wishful thinking. But even if they never talk about this again it's still important, still a conversation they're both going to have to digest for a while.

"Shawzy's known for a couple months," Leds offers after the silence stretches out again. "So it wasn't, like. A surprise for him or Boller. I'm probably going to get it all day from him tomorrow, you know what he's like."

"You're gonna 'get it', huh?" Brandon says, the comeback automatic, the joke too easy to not go for, and it feels friendlier now, too; like it's okay to flirt with that kind of borderline no-homo stuff that sometimes just makes Brandon feel very, very tired. It's okay when they're both on the same page, when it's self-deprecating instead of shitty.

"Please, I have way better taste than that," Leddy says, just as automatically.

"Five bucks says he makes a your mom joke if you say that," Brandon says, and then Leddy laughs at him, the tension breaking as he says, "Yeah, no bet."

Brandon looks over at the clock radio and blanches. It's really late, and they've been up forever, and, "Shawzy's probably going to prank call us in, like, two hours," he says, and that whole stunt with the water seems much less funny now that he's imagining it. Fuck, he's so ready to get a solid eight hours.

"Oh god, right," Leddy says, and works his way under the covers over his bed, stretching out and making a satisfied noise that Brandon is definitely, absolutely too tired to find kind of hot.

He waits a second to make sure Leds is settled before reaching out to flick the lamp off, letting the room fall quietly into shadows.

"Night, Saader," Leds says, voice soft, and Brandon just says, "Sleep well, Leds."

He's expecting to lie awake for a while; this has been a lot to take in, but he must be even more tired than he'd thought, because the next thing he knows there's light flooding the room and Brandon's blinking awake, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

* * *

Everything is surprisingly — refreshingly — normal the next morning. By some miracle, probably the sheer fact that they'd all gone to bed still some degree of wasted, Shawzy hasn't set up any kind of revenge, elaborate or not. Brandon sleeps all the way through to Leddy ruthlessly yanking the curtains open, letting the mid-morning sun stream into the room. It feels early, although that could just be the time change, but Brandon feels like he's had almost enough sleep, and when he rolls over to check the time it's just past ten, not too shamefully late after all. Some of the restaurants might still be serving actual breakfast food, even.

"Hey," Brandon says, a little croakily, making a face as he swallows. He really needs to brush his teeth again.

"Morning," Leddy says easily, perching on the edge of the TV cabinet, eyeing Brandon carefully.

Brandon casually rearranges the covers more securely over himself, sits up enough that it's clear he's making an effort to get up and not just planning a fake-out that winds up with him fast asleep again the second Leds goes to the bathroom or whatever. Not that there's some precedent there or anything. Now is not the time for Brandon to think about either of their hook-ups last night, or about his morning wood, or how good it would feel to just lie back down and jerk off.

"Are you seriously dressed already?" Brandon says after a moment, his mouth catching up to his eyes and brain. Leds is wearing the same shirt again, but different shorts. They look like swimming trunks, and probably are; Brandon wouldn't mind a swim before spending the afternoon out on a golf course, that's for sure.

"I want breakfast," Leddy says, a little pitifully. There's a mug set out on the cabinet beside the TV that hadn't been there last night, so Brandon figures he's already had tea, or mixed himself one of his weird smoothies from the fridge, or whatever. "Come on, Saader, don't make me deal with Andy alone."

"Okay, okay, fine," Brandon says, and rolls out of bed. He's avoided a hangover at least, it appears, so that's something. And there doesn't seem to be any residual weirdness from last night, which is even better.

It doesn't take him long to get dressed, digging shorts out of the bottom of his bag, "That's a nice pink," Leddy says, lurking by the door, and apparently playing fashion critic.

"They're salmon," Brandon argues, tugging a sleeveless shirt over his head, and considering a shirt over top before deciding he'll be fine with just sunglasses and a Cubs hat he thinks he might've stolen from Smitty.

"Pretty sure that's the same as pink," Leds says, and Brandon brushes past him with quiet dignity, rather than try to fight a losing battle.

"Come on, food is calling," Brandon says, and he leans back around him to bang on the adjoining door, eliciting a loud "We're fucking awake, come in," from Bollig, although Brandon can't tell if the tone is grumpy due to a hangover or the fact they're still waiting on breakfast too. He steps back to let Leds precede him through the door, not knocking shoulders with him this time, although it's probably good for both of them if they still end up casually touching a lot. Brandon really really doesn't want things to get weird, so acting the same is even more important.

…Brandon had also maybe not realized, until the other week, just how often they wind up touching. He just hopes Shawzy's the only other one who's noticed.

"Thank fuck, I need bacon," is how Andy actually greets them, looking a little bleary and grimly determined, and that's about all they get out of him until they've hustled downstairs and found a table at the restaurant there. By silent agreement, they go straight for the buffet breakfast option, which is still going strong even though it's technically mid-morning by that point.

By the time he's eaten enough to start feeling fully awake, Brandon's let his guard down, which is why he nearly chokes to death on a piece of his waffle when Shawzy sets his coffee cup down by his plate, looks him dead in the eyes and says, conversationally, "So, Saader, get your dick sucked last night after all?"

"Jesus, Shawzy," Brandon says, after he's done coughing, washing down the waffle with a hasty gulp of the fresh orange juice that's set out in jugs on the buffet tables.

Shawzy's still looking at him like he expects Brandon to actually answer, which is probably — hopefully — just a ploy to make him uncomfortable, and if so, it's definitely working.

"I'm not answering that," he hisses, cheeks feeling hot, and he takes the next few bites of his meal faster than he probably should.

Shawzy gives him an angelic smile that is one hundred percent a lie, and then turns to Leddy. "How about you, Leds? Did you su—"

"Shawzy," Boller interrupts, before Andy can quite finish the sentence, not that they don't all know exactly what he was going to say anyway. "Behave. At least while we're in public."

"Aw, come on," Shawzy protests, but it's for show more than anything else, because he goes back to just eating his own breakfast like a normal human after that, and Brandon allows himself to think that they've paid penance for yesterday's prank.

The rest of breakfast is pretty quiet; Bollig's still a little green, the closest to hungover of any of them, and even he looks like he's back to normal after they hit the pool quickly. Brandon swims the world's slowest laps, head up the whole way to make sure he doesn't run into anyone who's just splashing around or standing there, and feels loose and good by the time he gets back out, wraps up in a towel and heads back to their room to change.

Golf is nothing spectacular, other than the ocean view from a couple of the greens, but Brandon has fun all the same, even if he's unequivocably the worst of their foursome. He stomps on the competitive urge enough to laugh off the chirping about his short game — which is actually not that bad, fuck off Leds — and by the time they head back to the hotel to hunt out dinner he's starving and hasn't thought about anything serious in at least an hour. Maybe even two.

It's a good day.

They take it easier on the drinks that night, although Brandon's not sure if it counts as caution or just husbanding their resources more carefully for the rest of the week, and when the TVs in the bar switch over to a re-run of the Opening Ceremonies Brandon decides he's done for the night and heads back to the room.

Without really saying much more, Leddy follows him, and they walk back in companionable silence. Brandon's glad he's there; it's nice to not be alone with the sudden spike of jealousy, the raw envy that comes along with seeing that after having had the possibility of being a part of it. He figures Leds has to feel much the same as him, even if they haven't talked about it in so many words. It feels like it'd make it too real, too painful to come right out and say it.

Cancun's great, and it's not like Brandon wants to wish away this break, the vacation from reality and his usual responsibilities, but— of course he'd rather be in Sochi.

It's the fucking _Olympics_.

"Next time," he says, and Leddy just says, "Yeah," doesn't need to add any more than that.

* * *

No one mentions it the next morning, either, even though they're all checking their phones often enough that Brandon feels safe in guessing that all four of them are well aware of how things are going in Russia. He doesn't go out of his way to spend time in the bars that have the TVs set to the coverage.

It's probably related to how much of his life Brandon spends following various schedules, but he finds that in a day or two they've almost fallen into a routine for their vacation, too. He spends some time on the beach, more time in the pool, naps under the shady trees and canvas-roofed cabanas in the afternoon, spending most of his time with Boller and Leds and Shawzy. They work their way through a healthy amount of tequila, appropriately enough, but Brandon's careful to cut himself off before he gets all that drunk, and the other three appear to be doing much the same.

They don't really talk about anything more serious than what tee time they're aiming for, or who wants what for dinner, and Brandon is honestly pretty relieved. He doesn't particularly want to have any kind of conversation with Boller and Shawzy, but if they're this okay with knowing about Leddy hooking up with guys, then he feels safe enough to let himself look, just a little. He's not quite in the mood to try and hook up again anyway, but it's still nice to know that he can make eye-contact with the guy he catches discreetly checking him out, can smile back appreciatively before deflecting the pass.

Boller flirts shamelessly with the bartender by the pool, and gets them all free drinks at least twice, which Shawzy doesn't even comment on, mostly because Brandon doesn't think he's noticed, ignoring them all to send Chaunette messages. Apparently she's alternating between updating him on how shitty the weather is back home in Chicago and telling him that she doesn't miss him at all, but the dogs do.

"Get in here," Shawzy demands, dragging Leddy in closer to his chair, arm hooked around his neck. "We're taking a pic so she knows what she's missing out on."

"I don't think she's missing it," Brandon says, at the same time as Bollig says, "Please only take your dick pics in the bathroom huh, Shawzer?"

"Why do we have to suffer this plague of Brandons?" Shawzy asks, mostly rhetorically, looking up to the sky philosophically — or to contemplate the umbrella over their table, so far as Brandon can tell.

"Don't pluralise us," Brandon says, mock-glaring.

"Eh, they're not that bad," Leddy says, leaning back into Brandon's side, and Brandon pats his hip, saying, "Thank you. I think."

Andy's pouting at his phone by that point, so Brandon just exchanges a look with Bollig and leans in to grab it, fast enough that he's a step away by the time Shawzy tries to stand up in pursuit, which just makes it all that much easier for Bollig to grab him, hands clamped down on his shoulders.

"You're all dicks," Andy says cheerfully, trying to kick Bollig in the shins, which he avoids with the ease of long practice.

"Nah," Brandon says. "Would dicks have safely kept your phone out of splashing distance?"

"Wait, what?" Andy says, a little dangerously, starting to struggle in earnest.

"Get his feet already, Jesus, Leds," Bollig says, and Brandon shoves Andy's phone under his towel before diving in to help Leds and Boller wrestle Shawzy down, getting just enough of a grip on him that with some teamwork they can toss him into the pool to cool off. He's wearing trunks with a t-shirt over, and he'd kicked his shoes off an hour ago, so it's not like he can complain all that much.

Brandon steps smartly back from the edge so that he's out of splashing range when Shawzy comes up spluttering and cursing them out all the same, though. Leddy doesn't move quite as fast and gets half-drenched, but before he can do anything more they all see the lifeguard for the pool area starting to head in their direction, looking stern, and they collectively beat a quick retreat at that point. Shawzy's still dripping by the time he catches up to them, and Brandon goes back in the pool with him more out of a sense of vague self-protection than anything else.

"I totally dated this girl in high school who said her grandma was, like, a dryad or something," Shawzy says, kind of apropos of nothing, floating on his back with a pool noodle under his head, sunglasses perched on his nose. Brandon's not sure whether he'd got out long enough to retrieve them or managed to somehow hang onto them when they'd tossed him in the pool earlier. He looks very relaxed, at least.

"Uh huh," Brandon says skeptically, floating beside him with his arms crossed behind his head. The sky is hazy with thin wisps of cloud scattered across the blue, and he has to keep moving so he's not staring straight up at the sun.

He's not sure where Shawzy's going with this, because like every other person will tell you how their grandfather or great aunt or whatever was actually secretly magic, or part-selkie, or whatever, and most of the time it's just family legend or drunken bragging and not actually all that true.

According to rumor, Brandon's high school had no less than eight people who claimed to be distantly descended from some famous Polish vampire, plus three guys who claimed to be werewolves — which Brandon thinks was probably bullshit they thought might get them girlfriends — but then again, there were also some people who weren't exaggerating or kidding themselves. Janie Powers could definitely levitate herself and anything else she wanted to, which had made chem class occasionally hilarious, and meant she was always popular when they had to pick teams in dodgeball. Still, Brandon doesn't know a whole lot of people who aren't just 100% plain old human, although plenty of people keep that sort of thing pretty quiet.

"No, for real," Shawzy says, "she, like, barely needed to breathe--" "Why do I think this is going somewhere dirty?" Brandon interrupts him to say, and Shawzy just talks right on over him, "When she was _under water_ , you dick. She went to State with the swim team, like, every year."

"Huh," Brandon says, still feeling pretty skeptical about the idea. He'd always heard most water sprites and river spirits had got so mixed into the general population that all they tended to turn up nowadays was as people who were weirdly good at gardening or whatever. "And this is relevant because…?"

"I was just thinking about it," Shawzy says, like that even makes sense. "Hey, you want another drink?"

"Yeah," Brandon says, and rolls over to swim for the steps at the side of the pool. A cold beer sounds like exactly what he feels like.

* * *

The day before they're due to fly home again they spend the morning out on the golf course again — Brandon's game has improved some, which is nice — and then just take it easy back at the hotel in the afternoon, drifting from the beach back to their rooms and down to the bar by the pool for what's either a very late second lunch or an early excuse for ruining their appetites for dinner.

Brandon gets caught up in telling Leddy about some of the shit they'd done on the bus in the OHL, even though he’s pretty sure the college hockey guys spend almost as much time on roadies and aren’t likely to have invented anything all that different.  He's trying to explain the rules for one of their card games which could be picked up whenever and last anything from fifteen minutes to eleven hours, depending on how bored they were and how long the road trip actually was, but it’s fairly challenging this many years after, and also because the rules tended to be flexible depending on who was dealing. Brandon still doesn’t think he’d really been out as many times as Pats claimed. They had been pretty fucking bored on buses a lot.

Leds seems actually interested enough for Brandon to go into more detail than his usual, well-practiced anecdote about That Time Rossy Was a Sore Fuckin' Loser, and first Shawzy and then Boller get bored enough to get up, go pay their share of the check and wander off. Brandon figures they'll catch up later; there's probably time for a nap as well as a post-beach 'get all the sand off for at least ten minutes of feeling totally clean' shower before they should even think about getting dinner. He's mostly packed already anyway, working on the assumption that they're going to make another solid effort at the bar after they eat, and he doesn't even want to think about trying to pack drunk.

Brandon winds the story up not all that long after Bollig had waved from the front counter and headed off; he's acutely conscious of the sensation that he's been talking for a while, and even though Leds doesn't seem to mind, it's making him feel oddly self-conscious.

They get back to their room pretty quickly and Leds calls first shower, leaving his flip-flops haphazardly in front of the TV and shedding clothes as he walks into the bathroom, down to just his shorts by the time he closes the door behind himself. Brandon is very carefully not looking, so he just stretches out on his bed, and digs around on the nightstand looking for something to do while Leddy showers that isn't just thinking about Leds in the shower. They'll be back in the locker room together in like a week, and if Brandon can't get himself back under control and acting normally again by then he's going to have some serious, fucking-up-his-life type of problems. He's going to be professional about this even if it kills him.

He actually does a pretty good job of taking his mind off it, idly reading through some stuff on his iPad, and he's almost forgotten that he'd had any other kind of motive than the overt one by the time he's had it open for a few minutes. He kind of wishes he'd brought his keyboard, actually, even if it would've been a complete pain in the ass to travel commercial with. It's the easiest way he knows to get himself to chill out a bit, helps him stop thinking when he needs to.

And that's when there's a loud thud from the other room, and a shout of "Jesus CHRIST, Shawzy!" echoes from the bathroom.

Brandon sits up, fast, wondering what the hell is going on. He's pretty sure if Shawzy had tried to, like, hide behind the door and jump out at Leds or whatever that would've happened as soon as he'd got in the shower and not now, a good ten minutes later. There isn't anywhere in the bathroom to hide.

Leddy comes out of the bathroom a minute or two later, scowling, hair wet and plastered to his head, dripping down over his ears and the back of his neck, towel wrapped around his waist.

"Where the fuck," Leddy says, sounding pissed off, but with an edge of something that Brandon can't entirely identify, "did Shawzy get fucking _dye_ from here? It was in the fucking hotel conditioner bottle!"

He holds out his hand in mute illustration, and Brandon stares, because Leddy's left hand is unmistakably a bright blue. It's streaky, the dye — whatever it is — hasn't spread evenly, and it looks like some of it at least washed off while Leds was still in there under running water, but as pranks go it's a pretty fucking creative one. Although not all that effective, he thinks, taking a second, harder look at Leddy's hair. It's dark enough that it'd be hard for dye to take, sure, but at least there's no blue streaks on his ears or around his hairline.

"At least your hair's okay?" Brandon says, trying to fight back the smirk. It is pretty funny, really. Especially since he's not the one who has to deal with it.

"Yeah, I didn't touch my _hair_ before I noticed," Leddy grumbles, and Brandon feels his eyes widen, and even though he tries not to his gaze definitely drops to the towel hanging off Leddy's hips — Leddy goes a little pink, bites his lip and guiltily looks away, which is as good as confirmation — and Brandon's lip twitches, and oh, yeah, he can't help it; he cracks up laughing, dropping his iPad onto the bed beside him while he laughs helplessly, arm over his face to try and muffle his laughter. Maybe he'll be able to stop if he's not looking at Leddy making that face.

"Are you—" he starts to say, and he can't actually get the words out without laughing more, because Shawzy's payback has apparently succeeded beyond, Brandon has no qualms in stating, his wildest possible dreams. "Did you really—"

Leddy sighs, and sits down heavily on his own bed, although when Brandon looks over at him, peeking through his fingers, he can see that Leddy's lips are twitching with a repressed smile as well, seeing the funny side.

"It's like that really fucking disturbing Smurf porn Mo tried to show us that one time," he says finally, with an over-exaggerated sigh, and that's when Brandon loses it completely, laughing until his vision blurs, tearing up as he remembers, and then tries not to imagine it, and then just keeps on laughing.

"I don't know how he thought he'd get both of us with that," Leds says after Brandon finally manages to stop laughing, biting his lip and trying to breathe in and out slower than usual. It's only about fifty percent working.

"He probably spiked something else in there," Brandon says after a moment, resolving on the spot to toss out everything but his toothpaste, maybe. The shaving cream is probably safe, too, if only because Brandon's never been able to get the container open himself and he doesn't think Shawzy would've been able to either.

The connecting door between their rooms opens then — they'd been leaving it unlocked most of the time anyway — and it's Boller who sticks his head through, checking out the lay of the land.

"What's up?" he says. "Did Leds just yell about something?" He's trying to look innocent but the way he'd looked straight at Leddy's hair had been a dead giveaway that he'd collaborated, if nothing else.

"Fine, you can tell Shawzy he got me," Leddy says, holding up both hands in mute supplication. Brandon snickers again, and Bollig's laughing as well, leaning against the door frame while he shakes with laughter.

"Cat's out of the bag," Bollig says, leaning back into his own room for a minute, pitching his voice for Shawzy to hear, and Shawzy's smirking like crazy when he follows Bollig back into their room, laughs outright when Leds shows him his hand, and gives him a narrowed-eyes glare.

"You know, this reeks of pre-planning," Brandon says, mirroring Leddy's expression as he looks at Andy, who just shrugs unrepentantly.

"I like to be prepared," he says, and Brandon exchanges a look with Leds and translates that easily enough as, "He's been saving this one up for the next excuse."

"So sue me," Shawzy says. "Boller helped, by the way."

"No honor among pranksters, huh, Mutt?" Bollig says, turning and crossing his arms, raising an eyebrow at Shawzy.

"They don't have time for revenge," Andy points out, which is probably true, because Brandon has got far better things to do than to pointlessly escalate a prank war, even if it does mean that Shawzy comes out on top by default.

"Very funny," Leds says, "You win at pranking, Sharpy will be so proud, etc. Now tell me how to get this shit off before we have to, you know, go through airport security tomorrow. Because they probably won't think it's funny."

"Oh," Andy says, and Brandon suddenly feels a moment's unease.

"Shawzy," Leddy starts to say, his tone dangerous.

"Gotcha again," Shawzy says, grinning broadly at them both. "If you'd stayed in the bathroom longer you'd figure out it comes off with soap and a bit of scrubbing. You'll hardly know it was there tomorrow. It'll wear off in like a day or two anyway, according to the internet. Up to you, man."

"Ah," Leddy says, and shoots a quick, pointed look in Brandon's direction.

That'll be fine for Nick's hand, sure, but he's probably not really going to be able to scrub at more delicate areas. Brandon tries not to blush at that thought, because Shawzy will notice, and then he'll either guess or start asking some very pointed questions, and since Leddy clearly doesn't want to give away the, uh, collateral damage, Brandon hurriedly rephrases it as, then Brandon will keep that secret for him, too. It seems like the least he can do, especially since Nick's taken the brunt of the payback for a joke that Brandon had started.

"I'm gonna go… do that," Leds says, and heads back into the bathroom.

"See you at dinner, Ledpipe," Shawzy says cheerfully, loud enough that Leds can definitely hear him over the sound of water running into the sink. "I'm looking forward to dessert, though. I think there's blueberry pie."

"Fuck you, Shawzy," Leds yells back from the bathroom, and Brandon grins to himself. It hasn't been a boring vacation, that's for sure.

* * *

By the time they go for dinner, Leddy's hand is only faintly blue, barely noticeable unless you're really looking. He takes it with good grace when Shawzy presents him with an obnoxious cocktail; Brandon didn't know they even made alcohol that color, though he should probably have guessed.

Dinner is followed by more drinking, as Brandon had expected, one last hurrah before they head home, facing down the last stretch of the regular season before the playoffs and — Brandon hardly wants to think too long about it — defending their title.

He's kind of glad they'll be back in Chicago before the gold medal games; maybe he'll watch with a couple of the other Americans; Leds and Smitty for sure, but as much as he wants to watch — just like every winter since he was a kid — it feels different now, and it burns to think that if he'd started the season better that maybe he could have done something more than just watching. He's staring at his beer at that point, and clearly frowning, because Leds elbows him and says, "C'mon, Saader, snap out of it."

"Sorry," he says, because yeah, at least Leds knows exactly how this feels.

"Could be worse, huh?" Leds says, only a little pointedly, and Brandon bites his lip, checks that Shawzy isn't looking at either of them, and snickers before agreeing.

"Gonna head out," Shawzy says cheerfully, only a little bit too-loud a few minutes later, and Brandon's not sure whether he's leaning on Bollig or vice versa, but whichever way round it is, they're clearly done for the night. He wonders if he and Leds should go with them, starts to stand, but Shawzy waves him back into his seat and says, "Nah, have some fun, Saader. You're 21, try and act like it for once."

Brandon's not sure what he means by that; Brandon's already got a drink in hand, and it's not like there's any other activities on offer that directly relate to his age. Unless Shawzy just means that he should make some dumb decisions for the hell of it, which just means that Shawzy doesn't know everything. Brandon's made enough questionable choices on this vacation already.

He and Leddy shift over to some of the bar stools, freeing up the table for bigger groups, and the two of them talk easily, slowly working through their drinks. Brandon can feel a faint itch in the back of his head a little later, the weight of someone looking their way more often than is natural. He looks over to see a guy at the other end of the bar eyeing him speculatively, or- no, he's definitely looking at Nick. Brandon tries not to feel the vague sense of outrage that compels - he should be a good wingman and get out of the way. He's pretty sure the guy is Nick's type; tall and built, and honestly, now that he's thinking about it some of Leddy's movie preferences make a lot more sense.

"Hey," Brandon says, a little daringly, because there's coming to unspoken understandings and being pretty sure you know what page you're on, and then there's actually talking about it, "I think you've got a bite."

"Huh?" Nick says, the skin between his brows creasing as he looks at Brandon quizzically, and then turns — not discreetly in the slightest — to follow his gaze.

"I can hang out here for a bit," Brandon offers. He's packed already, anyway, he can hang out in the bar for an hour or two if he needs to.

"Saader?" Leds says, and Brandon can't tell if he's drunk or just being really obtuse.

"If you want the room," Brandon says, with a shrug. "Like. You're allowed to get laid, man. Like, there's no need for bl-" Brandon cuts himself off right before the phrase 'blue balls' can come out of his mouth, because oh that's unfortunate right now.

Leddy just gives him a very even look. "I'm good," he says.

Brandon opens his mouth to ask if he's sure, which, it's not like Brandon would really want to hook up in those circumstances, or at least, not with someone he doesn't know. He's still just as stupidly attracted to Nick as ever right now, and it's taking every microscopic bit of ethical decision-making that he can scrape together to stop himself imagining just exactly how Leds would look naked right now or, worse, asking to look. But yeah, he can understand where Leds is coming from, that's for sure.

"You wanna go back to the room?" Brandon asks eventually, because he's not really in the mood to sit around in public any more.

"Yeah," Leddy says, and Brandon can see he's a little grateful, too. "We can watch Survivor or something?"

"Awesome," Brandon says, and he even means it. They can do that, it'll be just like normal.

* * *

The last six weeks of the season seem to pass even more quickly than they had last year, although the post-Olympics compressed schedule probably has a lot to do with that. The Hawks can't seem to build a streak worth a damn, frustratingly inconsistent as they win a couple and start to settle, and then lose horribly, or by the very skin of their teeth, or get shut out the night before putting four or five past the opposition.

It makes it hard to relax even on the off-days they do have; they're putting up points and not really in much danger of missing the playoffs, but they don't have that feeling of almost-invincibility that they had last year, and Brandon's not sure if that's good or not.

It's probably good; obviously the way they'd played last year wasn't sustainable, and if nothing else, nearly losing to Detroit in the most ignominious fashion possible had brought that lesson home well and truly.

But he sure wouldn't turn down some reassurance that when it really counts they'll be able to knuckle down and grit out the wins, get focused and ready again. There at least hasn't been the same level of turnover on the roster that there had been after the 2010 Cup; when Brandon looks around the dressing room it's pretty much the same faces he's seen ever since he signed with the Hawks. That's more than most guys in his position can count on, that's for sure.

It feels like they're at home more often than not, down the stretch. There's only two quick trips out west, Nashville so close it hardly counts, and Denver further away and a strain, physically, but still not all that bad. Most of their away games are out east, clumped together in this end of the schedule for whatever reason, which means they're leaving snowy, cold and gray Chicago for equally snowy and gray cities in Canada and along the east coast; losing hours to the time change between Eastern and Central and getting back home past midnight more often than not.

It's a grind that's wearing them all down, and Brandon can see it in the way none of his suits fit quite right now compared to how they had been at the beginning of the season; can see it in the way Leds falls asleep beside him on the plane every other trip, his shoulder warm against Brandon's; can see it in the way that even Andy isn't joking around as much as usual. Andy's still being his usual self more often than not, but there's an edge to it now, like he's trying to keep them all on their toes by sheer stubbornness, like he knows they expect it from him and he doesn't want to let them down.

Brandon tries to keep up his usual routines; wakes up at the same time every morning, gets dinner with teammates when they're on the road and half the time at home too, catches up on his TiVo on off-days and watches whatever's live on TV with Leddy in hotel rooms.

He can't quite put his finger on when it changed, but at some point in the season he's migrated from stretching out on the spare bed in Leddy's room to just sprawling right next to him. Leds bitches about him getting his feet on the pillows — Brandon likes putting his feet up when he's watching TV, okay, and if he doesn't have a coffee table then he'll improvise — but he also doesn't shift away when the sagging cheap mattress tips them into each other, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. He doesn't even retrieve the pillows Brandon appropriates, just stacks the pillows from the bed neither of them are lying on behind his shoulders and, wordlessly, behind Brandon's head as well. Brandon lets Nick move him around as he prefers, and doesn't say anything, but he does wonder about it.

He'd thought, last year — and maybe even this year, every now and then — he'd wondered if Leds does actually look at him differently than his other teammates. If he looks the same way that Brandon hasn't been able to break himself of the habit of doing. Until Mexico, Brandon had always just told himself it was wishful thinking, that he was only seeing what he wanted to see. It shouldn't be any different now that he knows for sure he wasn't wholly off-base when he'd noticed the way Leds looked at Smitty sometimes, lingering on the way his arms look when he lifts, and, like. Brandon can fucking sympathize: Smitty is built even by their standards, they all have eyes.

But that was easier to be sure about than the tiny glimpses he gets of Leds' gaze lingering on him when he's distracted, or the way he could swear that Nick relaxes instantly when Brandon slings a friendly arm around his neck, or across his shoulders when they're on the couch at his and Shawzy's place. He's pretty good at reading people, figuring out who gets on with who, who needs more time to feel comfortable, who's never going to be good buddies even with alcohol to soften the edges.

It's harder when it's him involved and he doesn't get to just sit back quietly and observe. Brandon's a lot more comfortable in that position; he's been quietly figuring other people out for years. He's not so great at figuring himself out, sometimes.

It would be good if he could ask someone, get a second opinion, but even if Shawzy's cool with his teammates hooking up with guys, Brandon's not exactly ready to float the whole, 'hey, so do you think he likes me?' conversation about a mutual friend. It just seems all too third-grade.

Bizarrely enough, it's after they scrape out a shootout win against the Wild at home that he comes to a related realization that he should, perhaps, have worked out a lot sooner. They've got a back-to-back with Columbus, racing out of the UC as fast as possible after the game, already later than anyone would like since they've had to play out a full OT and then three rounds of the shootout before Hossa's shot gets them the second point on the night, precariously clinging on to second in the division and home ice advantage.

It's only a short flight, but Nick's still fast asleep by the time they reach cruising altitude, his breath warm against Brandon's neck, body slumped against his side in the seats they tend to grab together, yet another routine among many.

"Awww," Shawzy says, almost on automatic, walking past on his way back from the bathroom, or hassling Boller, or something; Brandon has to admit he wasn't really paying attention to much outside his book and the comforting hum of the engines, steady and familiar.

"What?" Brandon says, quietly; he doesn't want to wake Leds up until they're landing; he gets cranky if he doesn't get at least a half hour nap.

"Ledpipe's really taking his Duncs-hero-worship thing to a new level," Shawzy says, sitting back down on the other side of the aisle, buckling his seatbelt and then jerking his thumb towards Duncs, slouching against the window on the other side of the plane, a pillow stuffed between his head and the wall, clearly sleeping right through whatever animated conversation Sharpy is having with Seabs beside him.  "He remembers you're not a dman, right?"

Brandon wants to shrug, or flip him off, but that definitely would wake Leds up, so he settles for just raising his free shoulder in a half shrug, frowning at Andy like he doesn't have the faintest idea what he's talking about. This is just— friends do this, Brandon knows it's nothing all that unusual, not really.

"Just cos he trusts me not to draw on his face," Brandon says softly, but firmly enough that Andy gets exactly what he's implying and squawks in outrage.

"I haven't drawn on anyone's face since—" He starts to say hotly, and Bollig and Smitty both lean in over top of the seats from the row behind Andy, getting involved just like Brandon would expect. "Since Rockford?" Smitty says pointedly, and Shawzy settles back in his seat and tries to ignore them.

"Yeah, exactly," Brandon says, and grins at him, before going back to his book and ignoring Andy's muttering. They'll be landing soon.

They wind up next to Smitty on the bus to the hotel, too, and Brandon reaches across the aisle then, punches his shoulder and says, "Hey, good goal," because he'd said it on the ice right after, but Smitty's having a good week, and Brandon wants to make sure he knows they all appreciate it.

"Hey, it was your rebound," Smitty says, with a tired grin, and Brandon replies, "Well, it was Leds' shot first," because he'd just been crashing the paint when he'd picked up Leddy's shot; it'd taken all five of them on the ice to manufacture enough mayhem to get it past Bryzgalov, that's for sure.

"Go team," Smitty says, deadpan, and then reaches over to fist-bump each of them in turn.

Brandon's just idly thinking about all of that as he settles in to sleep that night, ignoring the faint whistling snore from the other bed that tells him Shawzy's congested, probably coming down with something that Brandon hopes he's not gonna catch. It's only then that it dawns on him that, really, nothing _has_ changed since they'd all come up from Rockford last year. He's closer to a few of the guys, sure; Leds and Shawzy probably the best friends he's had since leaving Saginaw, but fundamentally the way they talk to each other and act around each other is… basically the same.

And even if he and Nick were— more than just friends, maybe — Brandon can't actually see that changing things, either. Not really.

If they've been flirting or too-close all this time and no one's noticed or cared, then— why would that change? If Shawzy's been making jokes non-stop about their bromance and no one blinks an eye, then how would that change if they were actually fucking rather than just hanging out fully-clothed and not letting themselves look or touch too long. Brandon's stayed professional and hasn't let any of his uncertainty or his more-than-friendly feelings towards Leds change anything about how he acts on the ice, either. So if the only difference is that they get to be honest with each other — and, not an inconsiderable aspect, maybe actually _have sex_ — then why shouldn't they? Fuck, why has Brandon been denying what he wants for this long? They've been honest with each other about pretty much everything else; it's just dumb to keep pushing this away out of habit and fear and uncertainty.

It feels like such a blinding realization that Brandon almost can't believe he's thinking it to himself, that he's the only one awake in an anonymous hotel room in Ohio. It feels like there should be lights and sirens or something, but instead there's just the uneven flicker of lights from cars passing on the road outside coming in around the edges of the curtains, and Andy snoring, and Brandon trying to remember not to hold his breath while he waits to see if anything crashes down on him.

Nothing does, though, and he lets himself really entertain the thought for the first time.

He can catalog all the tiny touches that pass between him and Nick on an almost daily basis; how comfortable they are together; the way Leds looks when Brandon makes him laugh; the way he'd looked stunned and pleased and _hot_ for the first split-second after Brandon had wriggled onto the same sun lounger in Mexico, his trunks plastered to him, dripping wet from the pool, and ostensibly just trying to fuck with Leds by getting him wet too. Leddy had got his expression under control so fast that Brandon had doubted he'd even seen anything at first, but thinking back to it now, he's done with second-guessing himself.

He's suddenly impatient; they've arguably been circling this point for well over a year, and Brandon's just done with it, wants to get this out in the open and know for sure. It's probably good that he's rooming with Shawzy and not by himself, or — probably he shouldn't imagine this too hard — sharing with Leds, because if he didn't know full well that getting up and going further than the bathroom would wake Shawzy up, and that he'd definitely have _questions_ , then Brandon would be hard-pressed not to go talk to Leddy right then and there.

His good sense reasserts itself pretty quickly after that first impulse, though; just because he's pretty sure Leds is into him the same way he is doesn't mean anything will actually happen. Leds might not want to take the chance, might not think it's worth it. But fuck, _fuck_ , Brandon wants to try.

He knows that the end of the season is not really the time to mess with the status quo, though. The playoffs would probably be even worse. But no matter how everything goes, they'll have some time in the off-season, and Brandon promises himself that he'll visit Minnesota, or get Leds out to Pittsburgh, and then-

Then they can actually talk about this like the adults they claim to be.

Or at least, Brandon can give hitting on him his very best shot. He's got a couple of weeks to figure out the best way to do it, too. Well.

In between all those other critically important things like playing hockey and winning games. He can absolutely shelve this whole thing for another month or two.

* * *

They don't quite hang on to home ice, but when they get their shit together to dispatch the Blues in six games it stops mattering quite so much; they'll be at home against the Wild to kick off the second round at least.

Every playoff game is tough in its own way; Brandon's not going to sit back and rest on their laurels even after winning four straight against St Louis, or even though they manage to put together a three-goal margin in game one as well. It had felt closer than that by far, and the Wild aren't going to make it easy, especially with last year's series fresh in all of their minds.

Game two feels even tighter, like they'd been poised to go either way for half the game, and Brandon's edgy and wound too tight every minute that he's on the bench, only really able to relax into the flow of the game when he's actually out on the ice. It feels almost inevitable when he finally scores, picking up Bicks' pass and wristing the puck past Bryzgalov right on the end of the power-play, the UC erupting into cheers as the red light flashes. He's been picking up assists just fine, but he knows they expect more from him, especially in the post-season, and it's satisfying to finally get on the board this year, to pick up the empty-netter as well.

They're not going to celebrate too hard after the win; they've been here before and there's still a long way to go, and besides they'll be heading straight to Minneapolis on Monday anyway, but Brandon finds himself lingering in the locker room afterward all the same, bubbling over with nervous energy, too amped up to really want to sleep any time soon. Despite the win, Leddy's quiet, keeping to himself over in his stall, and it's not like Brandon tracks anyone else's ice time, but— he knows Leds was pretty much stapled to the bench for most of the third. He's pretty obviously trying not to get his mood on anyone else, but dwelling on it isn't going to help him, or, more importantly, the team, so Brandon looks around for Shawzy, doesn't spot him, and with a shrug just goes over to try and bully him into a better mood himself.

He's not notably successful. Leds cracks a smile when Brandon makes a joke, and he admits he's looking forward to seeing his family tomorrow, however briefly it is before they hole up in the team hotel ahead of the game, but the tension's still practically visible in the way he's moving; stiff and sharp and almost jerky. He huddles in his stall for another few minutes, hunched over and single-mindedly drinking one of the pre-mixed smoothies he has tucked in the pockets of his hockey bag, not making eye-contact with anyone. It makes Brandon want to do ill-considered things to shake him up, break it down and get him out of his head. Nothing he can think of to accomplish that seems like a good idea, though, and Nick's shoulders are so tight it makes Brandon hurt to look at him.

That only gets worse when they get to St Paul, getting set for game three, and Leddy's up in the press box instead of on the ice with them. Brandon takes warm-ups the same as every other game day; marks out a spot along the boards opposite the bench and stretches in place there, letting muscle memory take over as he goes through the full range of motions, paying careful attention to his hip flexors and adductors; now would be a really fucking bad time for an injury, that's for sure. He can see Seabs in his peripheral vision, doing pretty much the same routine, and Rants and Crow stretching out themselves to his other side. He doesn't look up from ice level, doesn't let himself think too hard about anything other than the game ahead; the important thing is getting out of there with another win.

They don't.

Even worse than losing — even worse than losing on the road, in a building that's delirious with joy at getting a win — they get shut out. The fact neither the Hawks nor Wild can score until the third doesn't make it feel any better when they give up one, and then a second, and a third and then the empty netter, icing on the cake. It's not really any consolation that it can't have been any more fun to watch from the press box than it was to experience, feeling helpless and frustrated to screaming point.

There's a couple of days to stew on it, too; they head back to Chicago right after the game, taking the extra time with their own ice and their own routines to prepare before flying right back again two days later. They're better prepared, Brandon thinks, focused and ready and this time they've got the Wild's number.

For half the game.

They give up the lead, claw it back, give it up and tie it right back up again, and then less than a minute later the Wild pull ahead again and this time it's for good; despite everything they throw at the net the Hawks just can't get back into it, and when the buzzer sounds they're dead even in the series, looking at six games at least, and another guaranteed trip to Xcel.

Tazer gives them his version of a pump up speech in the locker room afterward, jaw tight and determined, the same look in his eye that Brandon remembers from last year, that says things might be shit right now but they're going to dig their way out of this even if it takes them all seven games. Brandon would rather it didn't, but if it comes down to that point then of course he's all in, he's committed. Looking around the room he can see the rest of them straightening up, focusing, and yeah, they can get back on the same page.

It's too close for comfort, but they win at home, and then again on the road. When it's tied at the end of regulation Brandon thinks this is going to be another long night, flashes back to the Final, and sets his jaw, ready to work as long as it takes to get the win. They survive an early flurry of shots from the Wild, and Brandon can feel the tension in the building, the way all it deflates in an instant when the Hawks score halfway through the first OT period.

Even though they've been here before — literally, even, going through the Wild last year — the first feeling he has is of complete blankness, everything washed out and too-bright for a long minute before sound and color snap back into place as they pour off the bench to pile on Crow, cheering and yelling and headed right back to the Conference Finals, fuck yeah.

The locker room is only a little more restrained as they get it out of their systems, fully aware of how much work there still is left to do. Brandon isn't really thinking of much in particular when he follows Leds out of the room, hanging back further along the hall as a couple of the guys with passes to get that far into Xcel whoop and then jump on him. Brandon blinks a couple of times, starting to feel tired as the adrenaline from OT wears off, and recognises Rau and Bjugstad, plus another guy who has to be Nick's brother, though Brandon hasn't actually met him before. He looks too much like Leds to be anyone else, unless his cousins are creepy clones or something like that, and if Brandon was, well, Shawzy, then he'd make a joke here about Minnesota, but Brandon's a good American boy and isn't going to stoop for that joke. Well, not unless he has to, anyhow.

Bjugstad leans in to hug Leddy easily, and just like every time Brandon's seen him — especially when it's been a while since they'd last played together — he makes even Brandon feel short. Nick's shorter again of course, and Brandon has to push away a moment's envy as he watches him press his face briefly into the side of Bjugs' neck, dwarfed by his height even though Bjugs is still lanky as ever, hasn't bulked up as much as Brandon suspects he would like, especially given he's up with the Cats now.

Brandon gets the occasional Panthers update from Tro, keeps an eye on them for his sake if nothing else, so it's not all that much of a surprise to see Bjugstad here. He knows he and Leds are tight, and he should've remembered that Rau is too, the way all the Minnesota guys tend to be in each other's pockets all the time. The hug Leddy gives Rau is almost longer than the one with Bjugstad, and despite himself Brandon can't help feeling his eyebrows raise. Leds is affectionate and almost handsy with him, sure, and he's used to that, maybe even takes it for granted, but he hasn't seen him be this touchy with anyone else, not even Andy. It's a little unsettling; Brandon thought he knew pretty much everything about Leds. Tyler doesn't seem surprised or fazed at all, though, just nods a hello to Brandon and waits patiently for Leds to be done with the other two.

Kyle and Nick both seem to register his presence at about that point, and Brandon also can't help but notice the way Kyle goes kind of tense when he sees Brandon, leaning away from Leddy and back into Bjugs. He can't figure out why; they've been moving in the same circles for a couple of years, never interacted all that much outside national team stuff, but Brandon doesn't think he's ever had more than the most casual off-ice conversation with him. Bjugs is as friendly as ever, smiling at Brandon just as easily as he had Leds, and his congratulations on winning the series sound sincere, even though it has to be eating at him a little to be done with his own season this early. Brandon has a sneaking suspicion that as good a friend as Leddy clearly is to him, Bjugstad probably wouldn't have been all that sad to see the Wild make it further in the playoffs, either. Brandon still has the occasional, traitorous thought about the Pens when he's not actually facing them; a lifetime's habit is kind of hard to break.

Brandon exchanges friendly fist-bumps with them, leans back against the wall of the hallway to talk, letting the vague unreality of the moment just wash over and through him. It's probably going to feel like this until he can get a solid night's sleep in his own bed, but the sensation isn't entirely unpleasant, so he's happy enough to just roll with it.

There's enough other people wanting to get into the locker room, or walking out to find friends or relatives that it's clear they're very much in the way in the middle of the hall, and without really discussing it first Leds and then Bjugs and Rau and Tyler all wind up pressed against the side of the hall, taking possession of the dead-end corridor just past the locker room and in front of what Brandon thinks might be a supply closet, or maybe an electrical one; it's not labeled but there is a lock on the door.

Even with the OT, Brandon doesn't think he's played much more than usual that night but he's tired all the same, like the exhaustion from the entire series is starting to compound on him. Leddy seems to be in much the same spot, because while he's animated talking to his brother, addressing the occasional comment to Bjugs or Rau and fielding their chirps with his usual goofy grin or quiet calm, by the time they're starting to run out of things to say he's leaning heavily into Brandon, starting to slide against the wall.

Brandon doesn't let himself second-guess anything, just thinks 'the hell with it' and wraps an arm around Leds. They're both balanced better now, and if Brandon's enjoying the way Leds feels tucked right into him, well, that's no one's business but his. He's starting to get more conscious of the sweat that's drying sticky in his hair and along his back, gluing his shirt to him, and both of them probably smell terrible; the normal reek of hockey gear and stale sweat. It's probably all for the best that almost everyone else they know also plays hockey and is used to it, because Brandon knows full well if he was having this conversation in front of his mom she'd have chased him off for a shower already.

That thought's enough to prompt him to think that he really should get on that; they'll probably have the trainers after them any minute now. They're flying home later that night after all, so there really is a hard limit to how long they can stand around chatting.

He can't quite work up the motivation to move, though. It's easier to just let himself drift, listening to Leds talk to his friends, warm and happy and excited.

* * *

Brandon doesn't mean to, but he's the one who falls asleep first on the plane back to Chicago. He remembers belting in and tuning out the safety talk that the charter insists they have to give every time, just in case, and he'd even gone far enough to pull his iPad out of his bag and stuff it in the seat-back pocket, planning to fuck around with Plants vs Zombies or something equally mindless, but when he blinks again the cabin lights are down low, and he's slumped over on Leddy's shoulder.

He takes a couple of slow breaths in to try and center himself, doesn't try to sit up right away. His nose and cheek are mashed right into the bone of Leddy's shoulder, and he's probably been breathing into his collar the whole time. Leddy doesn't seem bothered — Brandon's fallen asleep on enough guys who will unashamedly just shove him off  to expect that and manages to sleep through it more often than not — but there isn't really a discreet way to check he hasn't, like. Been drooling in his sleep. He's probably fine, but they've been in a cold rink for enough of the day that it wouldn't be much of a surprise if he was congested. Hell, Leds could still be asleep, too.

"Ughh," Brandon says under his breath, and then does sit up straighter, careful not to jostle him.

"It's your own fault if you strained your neck," Leds says, speaking softly enough that Brandon can only just hear him over the quiet hum of the other people still awake and talking and the low constant thrum of the engines.

Brandon rubs the back of his neck almost automatically at that, stretches out carefully. "Nah, I'm good. Sorry for, uh." He shrugs in an attempt to encompass the whole 'falling asleep on your shoulder' thing, trying to settle more firmly into his own seat. He can't hang all over Leds like this too often.

Leddy stretches his feet out, idly rotating his ankles, nudges his knee against the side of Brandon's thigh. "You're fine," he says after a moment, and then he goes back to whatever he'd been watching on his phone, headphones sitting askew so that the ear closest to Brandon is only half-on, so he can hear if Brandon says anything back to him. He doesn't move his knee.

The point where they're touching feels like it's ten degrees warmer than the rest of Brandon's body. It's not like they keep the plane all that cold; but Brandon is acutely conscious of Leddy's thigh against his, awareness radiating out from there in a way that makes him feel like his skin's too tight, stomach unsettled and hands heavy, fingertips buzzing. He wants— he doesn't want to pull away, he wants to lean in, wants more than this. He wants to admit to this, as if the words are the only thing holding them back.

In the quiet, dimly lit cabin, it feels like an inevitability. He can't help himself; he ducks his chin and then looks over at Nick, glancing up through his eyelashes, even though no one looking at them from the outside could think anything unusual was going on. Leds is calmly looking down at the screen in his hands though, like he's completely unbothered. Brandon's throat goes tight for a second, but then his gaze focuses better and he can see that Leds is holding his phone a hell of a lot tighter than normal, knuckles white, his wrists and elbows tense. It's almost a carbon copy of how he'd looked back in Chicago right after game two, but then Nick finally shifts his weight a little, moving his hands closer to his body, over his lap- and with a hot rush, Brandon realizes why he's squirming. Can see he's half-hard in his suit pants, the outline of his dick all too noticeable, all the more so when he's trying to hide it. Yeah, Leds is tense for a _whole_ other reason.

Brandon swallows with difficulty, breathing in a lot faster than he should be. It's hot, and it's getting him hot, and Leddy's knee is still pressed right up against his, even though he's sitting with his thighs splayed as far apart as he can, trying to relieve the pressure on his dick as discreetly as possible.

It's also something he absolutely can't do or say anything about; they're surrounded by their teammates, it's the middle of the fucking playoffs — it's the middle of the fucking night, even — and besides, he can't guarantee it's got anything to do with him, not really. Maybe Leddy gets turned on by winning — he wouldn't be the first guy Brandon's met who is — or by the playoffs or even by whatever the fuck he's doing on his phone. And while jokes about poorly timed erections are not exactly uncommon in the locker room, it's not like Brandon could actually put together a decent chirp right now; he's well aware all he'd be able to do would be to sound inappropriately turned-on. Too awkward by far.

Brandon bites his lip, wills his own dick to lose interest — has only middling success in that — and tries to focus on his iPad. He can just… enjoy this for now, and think about it later. It's the best option.

He doesn't have to distract himself for too much longer before they're landing anyway, and Brandon has to wake himself up properly, gets caught up in the circus that is sorting out all of their bags and making sure everyone has a ride home. He knows he's quieter than usual in the car, lets Shawzy and Leds talk from the front seat and just nods at intervals. He must be even worse than usual at disguising his expression, because Andy even goes so far as to ask, "Hey, you're okay, right Saader?" when they stop in front of his place to let him out.

"All good," he says easily, and smiles at them both, shrugging his bag back up onto his shoulder. "Just tired."

"Get some sleep, Manchild," Shawzer says, and Leds leans over to add, "Yeah, gotta have you ready to go for the next series, huh, Saader?"

"You know it," Brandon says, with a bit more confidence than he's feeling. He's pretty sure he'll have a better grasp on everything after he gets a solid night's sleep, and the break while they wait to see who they're playing is going to help with that, too.

* * *

LA take the Ducks to seven games, so they get even more of a break before the conference finals than they could reasonably have expected, and by the time game one rolls around Brandon's managed to get focused, feeling good. The rest of the Hawks seem to be feeling the same, and it shows through in their game, too; they're clicking on all four lines, special teams all going.

Brandon tips Leddy's shot past Quick in the first period to get them on the board, an early power-play goal that feels like an omen for the rest of the game; they've got this.

They take the game 3-1 in the end, weathering the push the Kings put on. It almost feels like they're picking up where they left off last year all over again, there isn't really any feeling out process, both teams know what to expect.

That illusion lasts precisely two more periods, and then six Kings goals later — six unanswered goals, fuck — they're even in the series and have lost at home for the first time all playoffs. The locker room is quiet afterward, almost shocked. They'd had a two goal lead, and then the third had just been one screw up after another. Brandon hadn't exactly thought they were going to sweep the Kings, he's confident, not cocky, but— this isn't how this was supposed to go, at all.

It only gets worse in California, and by the time they're back at the United Center it's with the knowledge that they could be facing the end of their season right then and there. They rally enough to scrape back one game, although it takes them two overtimes to do it. The games in California have been bad enough that Brandon would almost wonder about curses if it wasn't for the fact the NHL spends a lot of time and money making damn sure that nothing like that affects the games. The guys who can do any sort of magic — and there are some, always have been — are monitored closely enough that someone would've noticed, especially since every team has their own 'consultants' just in case, too.

They go back to Staples for a third time, and this time pull out the win. They give up the lead more often and more easily than Brandon thinks — with an edge of helplessness — should even be possible, but they manage to cling on to that one last goal until the end of regulation, the series even again. Brandon feels like he's playing right on the edge, pushing himself as hard and as fast as he can, trying desperately to be the difference they need, to contribute enough. Tazer's trying to put the whole team on his back too, Duncs and Seabs and the rest of the D finding the net too, and they're inching their way through it, bulling their way toward a game 7 at home, just one game away from getting right back to the Final.

Brandon sleeps just fine the night before the game; they've done everything they can to prepare, to get themselves out of the hole they'd dug their way into, but by this point all they can do is just go out there and play their game, try their best. He's up earlier than usual that morning, though, too restless to stay in his room. Either they've got it now or they don't, and dwelling on it before the game isn't going to help either.

He grabs breakfast, nodding to those of his teammates who're likewise up, although no one's particularly chatty. That suits Brandon, he's not a big talker over breakfast at the best of times, although he probably wouldn't say no to Shawzy or someone distracting him. He wanders over to the lounge area they have set up for the team once he's eaten, thinking maybe he can play some mindless video games or something before they have to get ready to do any of the scheduled parts of the day. He's not on the list for pregame interviews at least, which gives him a bit more time, and a lot less pressure. Brandon's better now at finding something to say to reporters in these situations, and of course it's pretty wild to have had this much experience in the playoffs in only the second year of his professional career already, but he doesn't mind in the slightest not having to exercise that muscle when he doesn't have to.

He winds up playing against Bicks and a couple of the Black Aces, all of them focusing pretty hard on the game and hardly chirping as much as they would usually. Bicks wipes the floor with him, and Brandon is more grateful than he expects to be to cede his controller to Hammer by the end of the third race, dropping out with good grace. He hangs around just watching for an hour or so before losing interest, and by that point Leds and Shawzy have both drifted in, getting involved in turn. They find a free corner and sit together, talking about anything but hockey, and it feels like last year again, and Brandon just— has a good feeling. He doesn't say anything though, just guards the spark of conviction to himself quietly.

Shawzy's talking about some TV show he's been watching that he thinks they should catch up on, and Brandon nods along, not really taking any of it in. Doubtless they'll talk about it again, or — more likely — Shawzy will just make him watch with him next time they have a room together, it's not like Brandon's missing out really. It's just good to spend these few hours where they can't do anything else with them at least, with his feet up on one of the spare chairs they've dragged over, cheerfully mocking both Leds and Shawzy for not thinking ahead to do the same themselves. It's a deliberate goad, and Brandon isn't terribly surprised when Leds gives him a challenging look and then just stretches out so his feet are in Brandon's lap instead.

"Your feet reek, man," Brandon tells him, pulling a face, but he doesn't bother shoving him away, and the grin he gets in response tells him that Leddy had guessed it was going to go that way, too.

Andy snorts, but when Brandon looks over and raises an eyebrow at him he just says, "Nothing," smirking in a way that bodes nothing good. That's probably something Brandon should worry more about, but he's doing a good job of not getting more stressed at this point and he'd rather not start now, especially if it's just something this small and meaningless. Shawzy spends half his life chirping Leds or Brandon or both of them, Brandon doesn't exactly think he's going to come up with any new material at this point.

One of the trainers sticks his head into the room to let them all know when lunch is being served, and Brandon gets up quicker than is maybe justified, but the day is crawling, and he kind of feels like if he has his pregame meal then they're closer to pregame naps and then they're closer to the actual game.

Knowing that's not rational in the slightest doesn't help him persuade himself otherwise at all, so he just rolls with it, telling the guys he'll see them later since neither Shawzy nor Leds seems all that eager to get moving then and there.

* * *

He shares a table with Hammer and Krugs, all three of them just quietly eating, no need to actually have a conversation. Brandon gets in a solid helping of the main, adding a couple extra sweet potatoes, and a baked potato with some kind of herb sauce. It's the tiniest change in his pregame routine, but considering how half their games have gone this week, maybe a change will be good for him. He's back to feeling jittery after that, though, frustrated for reasons he can't entirely explain.

Brandon's heading out of the room by the time that Leddy and Shaw wander in for their own meal, and just nods to them in passing. He's not going to be able to sleep right away, but he goes back to his room to try and relax there anyway, figuring he can watch a movie or something before his nap.

There's an itch beneath his skin now that he just can't seem to shake, and he makes it about twenty minutes into a rerun of some sitcom before deciding that maybe he'll feel calmer if he jerks off or something. He's just wearing sweats and a t-shirt, so it's easy enough to slide his hand under the waistband, too impatient to work himself up slowly, just going right for his dick. He shifts on the bed, thighs splaying further apart to give himself a better angle. It's good, but not great, and after a moment he rolls over, digs through his bag to find lube, and that helps; easier to let himself imagine it's someone else's hands on him, slick and fast and determined. He lets his head fall back into the pillow, eyes closed, putting together something good.

He's all the way hard pretty quick, letting his hips move, shoulders sinking into the mattress, the movement of his wrist catching on the waistband of his pants and dragging them down a bit, until he can feel the smooth fabric of the sheets against the small of his back, starting to sweat with it, sticky and too-warm. It feels good like always — when has a hand on his dick ever not, honestly, Brandon's not exactly picky — but it's not getting him any closer to coming, either. He speeds up, tries a tighter grip, and then looser, the barest tease of fingertips around the head of his dick, and usually that does it for him, but he can't quite get there.

After a few minutes more he slumps back into the mattress, wiping his hand off on his stomach, frustration coiling up in his stomach. He opens his eyes again, stares up at the ceiling as if the answers might be up there, but all that he can see there is the blank white paint, and some rust-colored marks in the corner that he doesn't think he wants to know more about. He must look ridiculous, Brandon thinks, sighing; sprawled out in the middle of the queen-sized mattress in an expensive hotel room, dick tenting his sweats, a couple hours away from playing one of the most important games of his career. Again. Just like two days ago.

Thinking about hockey again is kind of a boner-kill, which is maybe for the best, Brandon thinks, getting up and going to wash his hands, ignoring the insistent pull of arousal low in his stomach, the way his balls ache. He doesn't actually have all day, or even more than maybe another two hours before he needs to get moving, and he'll be better off if he naps rather than just lying around wishing he could get laid.

His timing is — for once this week — actually pretty good.

It's not long after he drops back onto the bed — face down this time, talking his dick down since it's not exactly cooperating with any more fun outcomes right then and there — that he hears a knock on the door. He gets up slowly, yells, "Hang on," in the direction of the door while he pauses for a second in front of the mirror by the coat closet to check he doesn't look obviously flustered. He can still feel some of the lingering effects of being turned on without getting the relief of getting off, but other than his face being maybe redder than usual, cheeks hot, he doesn't think any of it shows.

It's Leddy at the door, because of course it is, Brandon thinks, a little fatalistically, safely at the back of his mind.

"Can I hang out for a bit?" he asks, more awkward than he has been with Brandon in a couple years. The playoffs stress is getting to all of them, Brandon figures, and steps back, gesturing to the spare bed.

"Sure," Brandon says, "I was just watching TV before napping." He gets the sentence out without even stumbling over it in the slightest, points to him.

"Thanks," Leds says, screwing up his face for a moment before dropping heavily onto— Brandon's bed, whoops. "I hate this bit," he admits, "I just want to go out and play already."

"Yeah," Brandon says. "I know what you mean."

He means to sit on the other bed, since Leds has clearly called dibs on that one, but without really thinking about it he just climbs onto the bed right beside Nick just like normal, wriggling a bit to get comfortable, shoving the pillows behind his back into a better position.

Leds feels like he's radiating heat, sitting that close to Brandon, and he shifts uncomfortably, wonders if he should get up and crank the A/C some more, maybe.

Nick sighs heavily, takes a deep breath in and then lets it out slowly. Brandon can see just enough of his face with his peripheral vision to catch the way his brows draw together for a moment, lips twitching, and then his expression smooths out, and Brandon can feel some of the tension starting to leave his frame, notices the way his hands still against his thighs where he'd been fidgeting, and— shit, Brandon's kind of staring again. He's going to get caught looking if he keeps this up, although the overly-honest voice in the back of his mind is starting to suggest that maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

"So what were you watching anyway?" Nick asks, sounding slow and lazy and a hundred times less stressed than he had done a mere minute ago.

It's actually kind of odd. Brandon's comfortable with Leddy — most of the time, when he's not being self-conscious and too aware of how much he's attracted to him, anyway — and he knows Leddy's comfortable around him; takes pride in the way Leds relaxes in his company, the ease with which they talk and touch and interact. And this is Nick feeling very, very relaxed, but all Brandon's done is sit next to him for like ninety seconds. It's not normal, he thinks, and great; another thing to worry about.

"Uh," Brandon says kind of dumbly, fumbling for an answer. "Criminal Minds rerun?" he says after a moment, because that's pretty much always on, and always pretty fucking mindless.

They can check out in front of that for a while and make fun of the formulaic writing, and then he can send Leds back to his own room and they can nap. Or maybe they can just nap together, it's not like Brandon's going to say no to that, even though he probably should.

"Cool," Nick says, and then adds, "Hey, where's the remote?" as Brandon looks up automatically at the TV, which is of course just showing the blank off screen from after he'd tossed the remote down.

"I think it's somewhere—" he starts to say, running his hand down the mattress between them, with a vague memory of dropping it earlier.

He'd have noticed if he was lying on it, he's pretty sure, so it must just be tangled up in the covers somewhere. His hand finds the plastic outline of the remote by his hip a split second before his fingers brush bare skin at Leddy's side, his t-shirt rucked up with the way he's sprawling on the bed.

Brandon opens his mouth again to apologize, then decides before he can say anything else that he's just making it weird. Saying nothing is probably safer, even though he just wants to flatten his palm out and touch him more, and his dick is stirring again in renewed interest. Brandon tries to discreetly sit up a little straighter, hoping he can stop Nick from noticing anything about how strangely he's acting, but it's too late, because Nick reaches for the remote as well, their fingers tangling as they both try to pick it up at the same time.

"Sorry," Nick says, a little breathlessly as he lets Brandon pick it up, thumb automatically going for the power-on button, and some talk show starts up on the screen.

"It's cool," Brandon says, but Leddy definitely sounds odd, and so Brandon turns to look directly at him, a little worried, figuring he can start flipping through channels to find anything that looks worth watching in a minute.

Leds is looking right at him, too, chewing on his lower lip — Brandon feels a shot of heat roll through him, noticing that, slicking down his spine and making his knees feel weak — and it's the most open expression of want that Brandon's ever seen on him; every hint he feels like he's been cataloging for months all out there and visible for once, and all directed at him. Brandon feels like he's been punched in the stomach. This is— he can't be misinterpreting this, he can't be, and it's everything he's wanted for far too long.

"Saader," Leddy starts to say, swallowing hard, voice croaky like his throat is too dry, and Brandon thinks, very clearly, "Fuck it," and leans in.

It's unequivocably a move, it's not anything that could be mistaken for anything else at all, but Brandon has to be fair, pauses for a second with his lips a fraction of an inch from Nick's, knows he sounds completely desperate as he asks, "Can I— Fuck, Leds, are we really doing this?"

Leddy blinks, and Brandon notices again how long his lashes are, the way that his eyes look greener up close, and his chest goes tight, fuck, he wants this so much.

Brandon doesn't even see him move, but a second later Leddy has his hand curled around the back of Brandon's neck, hauling him closer, crushing their mouths together. It's too frantic to really be a good kiss at first, and Brandon has to pull back long enough to get a deep breath in before he can settle himself down enough to do better. Nick's mouth is hot against his, his lips a little chapped and rough, catching on Brandon's, and his beard is scratchy in the best possible way. If Brandon's cheeks weren't bright pink already, hot and turned on and still a little embarrassed by how damn easy he is for this, well, friction would do it too.

They sink into it, then, and Brandon tries his best to crawl on top of Nick without actually stopping kissing him, intent and wholly focused on the way his mouth opens so easily, breathing hotly against each other. Brandon hasn't spent this long with his tongue in someone else's mouth in a while. Nick makes a tiny growling noise against him, his hands tightening on Brandon's face, fingers digging into his jaw, and he tilts his head up like he wants more, hungry for it, and Brandon can totally understand where that whole thing about spontaneous human combustion came from because fuck, this is hot.

He pulls back for a moment, panting, trying to get enough oxygen to actually make his brain work for anything more complex than "yes, this" and "fuck yeah" and "holy shit", and licks his lips, going hot-cold all over as he tracks the way Nick is staring back, pupils huge and breath coming too fast.

Brandon's just lining up the words to suggest either they need to get naked already, or Leds needs to go back to his own room and let Brandon have a cold shower so they've got enough energy left for the game — shit, the _game_ — and as much as he resents it he knows the smartest thing to do is definitely the latter.

This is not exactly good timing, he thinks ruefully, and _that's_ when Nick goes from smugly satisfied and loose-limbed barely-restrained heat to what Brandon recognizes with a sinking sensation as panic, shrinking back from Brandon with a sharply indrawn breath, mouth closed in a tight line, and the tension that had been in his body when he'd walked into the room is back ten times over in a flash.

Brandon freezes, tries to pull back without looking like he's flinching, or without doing anything that might make Leds look even more like he's about to shatter, and not in a good way.

"Leds?" he says, hating how uncertain he sounds. He can't tell what he did wrong, or what changed.

Nick's still breathing fast, and when he does speak it’s softly, hardly even opening his mouth, almost like he's afraid to let himself speak unhindered.

"Brandon, did you— what'd you have for lunch today?"

Brandon stares at him for a second, completely weirded out.

He manages to speak eventually. "Uh, pasta? Like everyone else?"

Nick's still waiting, like that's not enough information, and Brandon is completely lost now, because this is _not_ a normal conversation to have with the teammate who you were in the middle of _making out_ with. Like, sure Nick's kind of a quiet weirdo, it's part of what Brandon likes about him, but even by his standards this is beyond bizarre, and then Brandon adds, remembering, "Oh right, and baked potato. With some herb and garlic sauce…?"

And then Nick just looks kind of. Green, actually, and he's wide-eyed and more than a little panicked when he yelps, "I have to- go, sorry, uh, bye?" and just about sprints out of Brandon's room.

Brandon lets himself fall back onto the bed, absolutely disoriented. What the _fuck_ is going on?

* * *

Brandon winds up lying on his hotel bed thinking very hard for the next hour or so instead of napping. It's not ideal, and it probably doesn't help him out much that evening either. He manages about forty minutes of actual sleep before he has to get dressed to head to the UC, and he feels like he's running to keep up for the rest of the afternoon, half a step behind mentally if not physically.

In the grand scheme of things, it turns out that it's not like it matters much anyway; all of them, not just him and Nick, _all of them_ are just the slightest bit off, too tired after a short summer and a long season. They make one mistake too many — too many mistakes overall — and then it's all over.

The fact they'd given up the lead, again, before losing in overtime — and off a bad bounce off one of their own guys, too — just compounds the frustration. Brandon doesn't blame Leds or Crow, doesn't think any of them do, it could and has happened to pretty much everyone at some point, but it feels shitty and he doesn't want anything more than to go home and lick his metaphorical wounds in private for a while. It seems to be a fairly common sentiment around the locker room.

But Brandon doesn't stop thinking about what happened before the game, either. The memory teases at his mind every moment he's not on the ice, or in the room, or talking to reporters or trying not to let on how much it fucking sucks to be done after going the whole way last time.

He keeps on poking at the thought, like a sore tooth, and the thing is, Brandon is smart and he's good at putting things together; he's a quick learner, and he knows the basic supernatural shit the same as anyone who's grown up with _Where the Werewolves Are_ and _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ , and, like. All the sort of stuff kids read. Hell, half the Spirit had been totally addicted to _Love at First Bite_ \- not that any of them would've admitted it for anything less than a serious bag-skate - if only because all the reruns of that soap were on when they were home and or meant to be napping.

And with the frankly incredibly obvious way Leds had reacted when Brandon said garlic, well. It was sort of hard _not_ to put two and two together and wonder if Leddy was, well. A vampire.

Brandon thought about it some more and figured it would explain a lot, maybe, but he can't exactly ask, because you just don't _do_ that. If someone wants to disclose their other abilities then it's up to them, and also if he is wrong and Leds is just having some kind of inexplicable and really badly timed gay freak-out, well. He doesn't need to think that _Brandon_ is obsessing over it.

Brandon does keep kind of watching him, quietly. Through the locker clean-out day, and at the get-together they have at Tazer's, where he invites the whole team over and grills for them and makes sure that everyone has, like, a beer or whatever, and gets a solemn shoulder pat and a check-up from their captain. He's not exactly subtle about it when he goes all Keep Morale High on them.

After they've had a few they get on Duncs to do something fun for once, so he fucks with the grill for a bit, and then makes a very small fireball chase Shawzy around the rooftop deck. Then people start suggesting he make other things explode, and Duncs is looking like he might actually go for it, at which point Tazer kicks them all out and says pointedly, "Have a good summer, guys, _bye_."

And so they're milling on the street and starting to split off and call cabs or Ubers or whatever, and Brandon's had just enough beer to be able to fake nonchalance as he lets himself stumble into Leds' shoulder as they're all on the sidewalk.

"Oops," Brandon lies cheerfully, and then adds, "Wanna share a cab?"

They're not actually that far apart, he and Leds have walked it more than once, and Shawzy has already made himself scarce, which was a pleasant surprise, actually. Nick seems to be noticing the same thing about then, because just like always — another point in favor of Brandon's theory —  he knows Nick's had more than a couple of drinks and yet he seems totally unaffected.

"Sure," he says eventually, and gets a solid grip on Brandon's shoulder, helping hold him steady.

Brandon's so good at planning. This is going perfectly.

* * *

When they get up to Leddy's apartment he doesn't even pretend to offer Brandon a drink, just goes to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water for him, and a mug for himself.

Brandon drinks half the glass before saying, "I'm not actually that drunk, you know." He leans forward to set the cup down on the coffee table, and when he straightens up again he manages to shift enough that he's now sitting a lot closer to Leds.

Leddy takes another sip from his mug and raises an eyebrow.

"You're really not sober, Saader," he says.

Brandon shrugs, because those two statements aren't really mutually exclusive. He swallows again, licks his lips automatically, and then tries not to act like he's noticed the way that Leddy's noticed that too.

"Hey, so," he starts, which is probably not the smoothest he's ever been, but whatever, it's not like Leds hasn't seen him at his worst. He gives himself a moment to try and get it together before saying anything else.

"So, you want to try this again?" is what he asks eventually. It's not actually the speech he'd been practicing in the shower and in his head on and off all day, but it'll have to do.

"Try what?" Leddy says, like he doesn't usually know what Brandon's talking about, faking ignorance incredibly badly. Brandon's seen the Hawks PR videos. Nick can't act for _shit_.

Brandon considers and discards three or four different options before thinking, 'the hell with it' and turning so he's facing Leddy on the couch, one hand landing on Leds' thigh for balance, and he can feel the tension in his quads.

"This," Brandon says, millimeters away from Leds' mouth, right before he takes that last critical step and presses their lips together. There's an awful moment of stillness right away where Brandon thinks maybe he's just _seriously_ fucked this up, but then Leds makes a tiny sound that’s half frustration, half pleasure and kisses him back, and then that rockets from sweet all the way up to 'stupidly hot' in about two and a half seconds. It's even better than last time.

Brandon reaches out with his other hand, starting to flail off-balance and gets a fistful of Leddy's shirt, the fabric crumpling up between his fingers as he tries to pull Leds closer still, preferably without having to move long enough to stop kissing him. He feels greedy and almost out of control; the kiss is hot, and dirty, and Brandon feels like he's giving up every one of his secrets as he kisses back, absolutely overwhelmed with sensation.

Leddy kisses with a confidence that Brandon has always suspected and never seen often enough; daring and skilled, just like he is on the ice, and just like that he tastes like salt and bright metal, skates cutting through the ice. Brandon feels his knees go weak even though he's already sitting down, and he sways even closer, kisses harder, tries to make it absolutely clear just how much he wants this. Leddy makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, yielding to him easily, letting Brandon press him back into the couch.

"Yeah," Brandon says, when he can finally pull away for more than a moment. His head is swimming, and he doesn't think it's from the beer. "This is- yeah."

He swallows hard, vaguely noticing that he's thirsty again, that he can feel his heart racing, pulse echoing loudly in his ears. He's wondering how desperately uncool it would be to lean away for a second and finish his water before kissing Leds again, but he leans in to nuzzle at Brandon's neck then, and that feels so distractingly good – fuck, why hasn't Brandon made out with more people with beards before? He had no idea – that he forgets what he'd been thinking about in favor of getting his hands under Leddy's shirt, fingertips trailing over skin and hair.

"Saader," Leddy says, sounding a little broken, and oh, yeah, this is just as good as when they'd kissed before the game, except this time hopefully Nick isn't going to run away on him. He doesn't have anywhere to run, anyway. Brandon's already right there where he lives.

"Hey," Brandon says again, trying to focus better, eyes open so he can line himself up with Leds properly; it's been maybe a whole minute since the last time they kissed, and Brandon's pretty sure the third time will be the charm.

Their lips touch, and it's still absurdly hot; Brandon can feel electricity thrumming beneath his skin, alcohol and arousal and something darker, and he's chasing the taste of it, familiar and sweet, when his brain finishes its earlier thought. He'd meant to pull just far enough away from Leddy to put the words together, to make a joke about 'Hey, at least this time I skipped the garlic' or something like that, but he's too wholly distracted by the part where they're making out. A few minutes later a bright spark of pain slices right through the haze in his head, unexpected and sharp, and he pulls back with a yelp to stare at Leddy, the instinctive "Ow!" a little higher-pitched than he's quite comfortable with.

Leddy's staring right back at him, one hand clapped over his mouth, like he's some 1950s movie star performing an exaggerated shocked pose, eyes wide and staring. Or- not shocked. Covering his teeth.

"I knew it," Brandon blurts out, which on later reflection he will admit is not one of his finer moments. "You're a vampire."

Leddy flinches, and Brandon automatically reaches out apologetically, before he realizes what he's doing. They were kissing, and then Leds' teeth were suddenly a whole lot more _there_ and also _sharp_. Brandon prods at his lip with the tip of his tongue, investigating. He'd felt the sharp edge of an canine, and it had hurt for a split second, but he doesn't think he actually drew blood. It was just- a surprise.

"Eh," he says after a moment. "I've gotten high-sticked worse."

Leddy's still and very quiet, looking at him. Brandon's not sure he's breathed in since Brandon pulled away, and, actually, Brandon's never met a vampire before, not for real, and he's just realizing he's not sure if Leds really does need to breathe. That may have some, uh. Possibilities.

Leddy takes a deep, shuddering breath after a long moment – guess that answers that, Brandon thinks – and lets his hand fall away. His teeth don't actually look all that different, still kind of goofy looking, like they're a little too big for his mouth, but Brandon doesn't think he's imagining the way his canines look more, well. Predatory.

Leds himself just looks worried, though, and that makes Brandon feel about three feet tall.

"Hey," Brandon says, and pats Leddy's knee. It's reassuringly bony as always. "It's fine. Breathe, man. Like I said, I already guessed."

"Brandon," Leds says, sounding strangled. "I can't- you can't just- I mean, I'm not…" It's basically the least convincing attempt at a lie that Brandon's ever heard, and that is not a low bar.

"I'm okay if you're okay?" he suggests. "But, like. Assuming you're not gonna eat me, we should make out more."

"You're taking this really well," Leds says eventually, and his hands are on Brandon's wrists now, which he doesn't entirely remember happening, but feels good, Leddy's thumbs stroking over the insides of his wrists, slow easy circles over the vein. "And of course I wouldn't- I mean, we don't, I'm not gonna _eat_ you. I eat regular food, just the same as you."

"That's not tea in that mug, though," Brandon says, definitely, because his subconscious has belatedly put two and two together and recognized what Leds tastes like, which he should've done earlier; it's not like he hasn't swallowed blood a bunch of times himself.

Leds looks a little sheepish. "I needed a pick me up," he says, not meeting Brandon's eyes. "It's all donated and, um. Ethically sourced?"

Brandon can't help himself and he does laugh at that. "Hipster vampire?" he suggests, and Leddy punches him in the thigh, just as hard as every other time they've chirped each other. "Fuck you, I am not."

"Come back here then," Brandon says, because honestly, it's important to communicate openly and all that, but mostly he wants to make out with Leds again, like, now. They can talk about whatever later, although Brandon definitely does have some questions. He almost wants to ask if he's keeping the beard because Leds doesn't have a reflection and therefore can't see to shave it, but probably someone would've noticed before now if that was true, so maybe he won't embarrass himself by asking that question.

"If you're sure," Leddy says, scrunching his face up like he's not sure Brandon knows his own mind. And biting his own lip, which just makes Brandon stare at him for a second, kind of curious about if Leds is gonna, like. Cut himself or something. Maybe his skin is just tougher or something, though, because there's a faint indent for about half a second, and then when he licks his lips like he's about to say something it vanishes right away, so, yeah.

"So sure," Brandon says, and grabs at his shoulders, leaning in for a closed-mouth kiss. It's- it's nice, and all that, but it's not what Brandon wants, so he stifles a cranky grumble and pretty much shoves his tongue into Leddy's mouth. Leds makes an involuntary noise, startled, but he's not so stubborn as to say no to a good thing, kissing Brandon back just as hard.

Brandon's not sure if Leds has, like, better control over his teeth – 'fangs' is just. kind of a boner-kill word, he thinks; sorry, but it fucking is — but whatever it is, that dangerous sense of sharp immediacy is gone, and when Nick tugs his lower lip between his teeth they just feel like ordinary flat incisors. It's still stupid-hot, though, and Brandon is less concerned with whatever supernatural shit Leds has going on and more worried about if he can talk him into taking his pants off. Or his shirt. Preferably both. It's not like Brandon's, you know, looked in the locker room or anything, but.

He likes what he has seen, is all.

They're both breathing hard by the next time that Brandon can talk himself into pulling away long enough to actually form words, or even a complete thought that isn't just 'Oh yeah' or 'Holy shit.'

Leds is still focused on him, though, working his way back down Brandon's neck, and sure, maybe Brandon should be kind of worried about that, or at least he would be if this was the sort of movie they usually end up watching at 1am on the shitty movie channels that Brandon's not even sure he pays for. But he's pretty sure actual vampires just maybe, like. Snack a little. And if he gets laid first, he's probably not actually opposed to that. He's heard stories about it making orgasms better, and where there's smoke there's fire, right?

Thinking about that makes Brandon even more conscious of how turned on he is, and he yanks at the buttons on Leddy's shirt then, impatient, so ready for more skin on skin contact, muttering "C'mon, let me, please."

Leds helps him then, leaning back from where he'd been sucking a hickey into Brandon's collarbone and shrugging his shirt off his shoulders, dropping it over the arm of the couch onto the floor.

"Yours too," Leddy says, tugging at the hem of Brandon's t-shirt illustratively, and Brandon reaches back, grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one motion, approximately a thousand times smoother than the last time he'd tried to do that in front of someone he wanted to fuck around with. It seems like a good omen.

Leds get his hands on Brandon's skin right away, palms sliding over his ribs, down to anchor at his waist, steady and smooth. He comes in for another kiss then, too, mouth hot and relentless, and Brandon makes what's actually a really embarrassing whimper at that. It's too much and not enough all at the same time, and either Brandon shuffles around enough to lean back, pulling Leds on top of him, or Leds shoves him, but whoever starts it, Brandon's happy to move, wriggling around until they're both comfortable, Leds a solid weight on top of him, one thigh pushing between Brandon's legs, and if Brandon had ever wondered if vampires got it up exactly the same as regular guys, well.

Now he knows.

* * *

The first time Nick bites him properly it's almost an accident, except for how Brandon gave Nick permission already, weeks ago, he's just been cautious about it. Over-cautious, even, to the point that Brandon can’t believe he’s still _waiting_ for this. Maybe he should be a little ashamed of how he’s been acting for the past couple days: pushing, needling, reminding him - and wearing a lot of open-necked shirts, because seriously, Leds, take a fucking hint - but none of it’s been working. It’s been at least two weeks of watching the way Leds’ eyes go darker whenever he mouths his way down Brandon’s throat, noticing the way his breath hitches before he pulls away instead of doing anything more daring than giving him the faintest possible bruises over his shoulders and around his jawline.

Not that what they’re doing instead is bad, at all, but the sex has been good and the spending half their time tangled up together whether they’re naked or not has been even better. Brandon has been successfully distracted from how much it sucks to be out of the playoffs to a degree he would’ve scoffed at, if anyone had told him months ago.

But all the same, it's still almost incidental at first, when it does happen. They're just kissing, tucked away in a quiet booth in an anonymous club in Chicago, one that doesn't care about vampires any more than it does about professional hockey players, and Nick nuzzles under Brandon's ear, works his way down his neck, tongue dragging soft and wet over his skin.

They’ve been taking it slow in general, after that first night where they’d wound up fucking on the couch in Nick’s apartment, too frantic and desperate to do more than stop long enough to find condoms. Brandon had laughed near-hysterically when Nick had confessed, a couple days later, to having what he’d labeled as one of the top five most embarrassing conversations of his life in trying to explain to Shawzy two days later just why he’d found a bottle of lube under the coffee table. Brandon had kind of wondered where it had rolled to, but not enough to actually go looking for it. He’d been pretty distracted at the time.

They spent most of the next week at Brandon’s place anyway, picking privacy - even if Nick had then insisted on dialing it back some, because if they’re doing this then he wants to do it right - over having to explain anything to Shawzy or anyone else before they’ve had time to work things out properly themselves. Brandon’s spent a lot of time kissing Nick, and even more time practicing deep breathing and patience and not just shoving his hands into Nick’s pants any time they’ve got five minutes to spare.

"Oh yeah," Brandon says, pitching it just loud enough for Nick to hear. Nick’s breath is hot and damp against his skin, his lips soft where they’re following the curve of his throat, his mouth fitting right over the jut of bone at Brandon’s collar.

Brandon gets his hands tangled into the cotton of Nick's shirt, knuckles dragging over his ribs. He’s breathing fast and open-mouthed into the crown of Nick’s head, can see his hair moving as Brandon exhales.

It’s not terribly loud in the club, but even so Brandon can only just hear it when Nick murmurs "Okay, yeah, enough’s enough," and lets his teeth scrape over the thin skin at the base of Brandon’s neck.

Brandon can feeling his pulse beating fast, every nerve heightened by the awareness of what Nick’s about to do. He tries to keep his breathing steady, keep his heartbeat steady too, echoing in his ears. He thinks Nick must be able to sense it, or maybe he can feel it, the throb against his lips where they’re hovering over the vein.

Brandon leans into him even harder, doing his best to keep his body language deliberately open. He wants this, he’s eager for it, tired of waiting.

"C'mon," he starts to say when Nick hesitates one last moment, but the 'n' sound drags out on his lips and turns into a moan as Nick lets his teeth change, nips him just hard enough to draw blood to the surface. It's only a tiny sip, really; enough to give them both a taste.

Nick gets one hand on Brandon's hip to hold them both steady, and Brandon’s got his arms wrapped around Nick, can feel the way his breathing changes ever so slightly as he bites down, his ribcage expanding and contracting in slower, regular movements. He can feel the way Nick’s concentrating on radiating calm even as he's sealing his lips over the scratch, sucking like he's trying to give Brandon a hickey - which, okay, he _is_ kind of doing that too.

Brandon shudders a little under his mouth, makes sure to say "Fuck, Leds," to make it very clear to Nick that he's enjoying this, although it comes out low and shaky, catching in his throat.

It must a relief for Nick; how could it not be? Brandon worked out pretty quickly that Nick didn’t wanted to admit, to either of them, that this could be the thing that makes or breaks them: if they’re going to actually go ahead with this ludicrous idea of dating a teammate and actually commit to a relationship that’s more than just for summer or the moment, then Brandon will have to not just be okay with Nick in theory, but also in all his quick healing, garlic-avoiding, occasional-blood-drinking reality.

They’d talked about it a little, the morning after they’d hooked up for the first time, tangled up in Nick’s bed, bleary with exhaustion, too tired to do more than talk quietly and touch carefully. They hadn’t even made it as far as the shower — and Brandon wasn’t keen to accidentally run into Shawzy in the process, which was a definite possibility considering they’d heard him come in a couple hours after they’d relocated to Nick’s room — and so Brandon was pretty sure that both of them had to smell pretty, uh, unappetizing.

Nick had explained — with a palpable sense of relief, Brandon thought, in being able to talk about this at all —  that he’d had relationships with people who didn’t know, or who didn’t want to know, with people who didn’t really want to get bitten, and they weren’t bad, but the people who had been completely fine with it, who actually _enjoyed_ it had always been the relationships that lasted longer and worked out better. It hadn’t been a warning, or at least Brandon hadn’t taken it that way, but he’d paid attention to what Nick was saying and what he wasn’t.

So far, Brandon is definitely on board. He feels good all over; Nick’s mouth is hot against his skin, and there’s a vague feeling of pressure where his lips are sealed over Brandon’s skin, but no pain at all, and there’s a hazy sense of pleasure that’s rolling through him, curling out from where Nick bit him. It makes him feel warm and easy and incredibly relaxed, all the tiny hurts he barely even notices by the end of a season sliding away, like being sloppy drunk and loose with it but without that same mind-numbing slowness that comes along with too much alcohol.

Brandon tries to stop thinking about what it feels like and just enjoy it, gets one hand onto the side of Nick’s face, fingers skidding along his jaw and back towards his ear, smoothing down his hair. He can feel Nick’s throat working as he swallows, the muscles moving under the ball of his thumb, and maybe that should freak him out, but instead he just feels gratified by the fact he can do this for Nick; he can do this  _with_ Nick.

He can’t see Nick’s face, but he looks almost as relaxed as Brandon feels, plastered against him. He’s so close that when Brandon starts to slide down in his seat — too pleased with himself and how good this is to remember to make the effort to keep sitting upright — the two of them slip a good half-foot before Nick seems to come back to himself, holding Brandon in place. It’s not as if Nick’s appreciably stronger than Brandon is, or anything like that, but there’s still something inherently satisfying about being handled like that, that sharpens the sensation.

Nick sucks harder against Brandon’s skin for a long moment, tongue chasing the last couple drops of blood before he leans back, waiting just long enough to let the wound start clotting up.

"Okay?" Nick asks, interrupting himself to press his lips to Brandon's again before he can even try to answer.

Brandon kisses him back helplessly, nearly overwhelmed by how good he feels. He’s getting the impression that Nick maybe isn’t enjoying this as much as he should be yet, that he’s getting all caught up in his head over it, too self-conscious. Nick’s face is concerned, sincere and careful as he checks up on Brandon, but Brandon just wants to try it again, as soon as fucking possible, thanks, and he rushes to reassure him that everything is just fine.

"Yeah," Brandon says breathlessly, once he’s certain he’s got control of his vocal cords back. He thinks he might have been moaning before, and maybe that should be embarrassing, but no one’s looking at them, and he feels so fucking good.

To reinforce that, he gets his hands up into Nick's hair, pulling just a little, just enough to keep Nick on his toes. "Seriously,” he says, tripping over his words a little with how turned on he is. “I’m good. Really good. C’mon, Nick, please.”

In answer, Nick shifts slightly so he can reach the other side of Brandon's neck, gives him a matching hickey there too, this time just scraping his teeth lightly over the vein, an obvious tease. Brandon goes tense all over for a moment, relaxing again just as fast when Nick bites him delicately. He thinks he’s taking a little more this time, and that feels even better. It’s like his whole body is humming, lighting up with sensation, and staying upright is just too much work.

Nick breaks away then, muffling a quiet laugh against Brandon’s skin before pulling back enough to make eye contact with him and saying, “You know, they’re pretty laid back here, but I think they’d prefer it if we don’t wind up on the floor.”

Brandon can feel himself flushing, knows he’s probably red and a little sweaty, but it’s hard to focus on any of that when Nick’s hand is holding him in place, hot against his hip, his grip unshakeable even through their clothes. He looks at Brandon for a long moment and seems to like whatever he sees in his expression, because he lifts his hand off Brandon's hip — Brandon slides down another inch or two without Nick holding him up — and presses his thumb over the bite mark, hard enough that even Brandon can see the skin go momentarily white around it as he looks down. Nick licks his thumb after drawing it back, no extra bleeding there either.

He’s captivated by the way Nick’s moving; it feels like he’s at half-speed, slowed down the way the game gets sometimes when things are going exactly right, when Brandon can pick out exactly the right moves, one after the other in quick succession.  Nick sucks quickly over the pad of his thumb, cleaning it off just in case, and the way his throat moves as he swallows just makes Brandon think of other times he’s seen Nick swallow, tips him from turned on all the way over to desperate, burning for it.

"Okay," Nick says a moment later, clearly reading that shift in the mood, and he pats Brandon's thigh. "Come on, Saader, time to go."

Brandon tilts into him, their shoulders lined up. "You're taking me home to bed, right?"

"Oh yeah," Nick says.

Brandon blinks a few times and grins at him, knows he looks easy and open and happy. "Told you I'd got high-sticked way worse."

* * *

They go home — to Brandon’s place again, still not quite ready to share this with anyone else — and it’s another reminder that they haven't been doing this all that long, still learning each other as well as what they are together.

It's still new enough that Brandon thinks he can remember every single time he's touched Nick; where and how, and so this time when they stumble in the door it's something new again when Nick pushes Brandon straight towards his bedroom, no pause to kiss him on the couch first, or push him up against a wall or a door or any other convenient surface first.

Brandon doesn’t think he’s drunk nearly enough to be feeling it much, and maybe he’s just the slightest bit unsteady with the euphoria from being bitten. Mostly, though, he thinks it’s just the way that this is so good it makes him feel off-balance, like he hasn’t recalibrated his worldview all the way yet, not enough to take in how Nick makes his head spin in the best possible ways.

Nick checks in with him again before they start undressing, a tiny crease between his brows as he makes Brandon step back and stand still for a moment, checking the initial rush from letting Nick feed off him has worn off by now. Now that they’re actually doing this he can see the quiet confidence Nick has returning; he’s clearly done this enough to know what to expect and where he can push, where he shouldn’t. Brandon just wants to see what else they can do.

Brandon's entirely happy to let Nick take the lead, and he gets distracted trying to help Nick out of his clothes before he even starts to tackle his own. Nick has to physically pick his hands up and direct them back to his own buttons at least twice, but eventually they've left their clothes in messy heaps on the floor and Brandon lets Nick push him down onto the mattress.

"Hey," Brandon says, letting his lips stretch out into an easy grin, curling his hand around the back of Nick's head, finger-combing through his hair and running his nails lightly over his scalp, enjoying the appreciative noise Nick can't bite back at that.

"Hi," Nick replies after a moment, and leans in to kiss Brandon again, slowly letting all his weight settle onto him. Brandon just kisses him back, running his free hand slowly down Nick's back, palm firm against his skin. Nick feels so good on him, it makes Brandon think all kinds of filthy thoughts.

"This is good," Brandon mumbles against Nick's mouth, arching up against him, shifting a little, appreciating how Nick just lets him do it, lets Brandon move them both until he gets them lined up how he wants, Brandon's knees either side of his thighs, feet planted flat on the bed.

"Something you want?" Nick asks him, grinning, pulling away far enough that he can nuzzle along Brandon's jawline, already prickly with five o'clock shadow even though he’d shaved a couple of hours ago.

"Leds," Brandon whines, hands greedy on his skin, thumbs digging into the solid muscle of his ass, and Nick kisses him harder, like he wants to just sink right into him.

"Yeah, you got me," Nick says after a moment, and shifts his weight so he's got a hand free, the other braced on Brandon's shoulder so he can lift up a little, so he can see Brandon better. His gaze is avid as he tracks how Brandon reacts when Nick thumbs lightly over his nipple, runs his palm down over his abs, teases towards his dick.

Brandon's breathing faster now, he can feel the way his pulse has gotten faster too, thrumming underneath his skin. Given the way that Nick’s eyes have gotten darker and the focus with which he’s watching the way his chest moves, he’s pretty sure than Nick can tell that, too. Maybe he can see it, or feel it through his fingertips or, fuck, smell it, Brandon isn’t sure. He’ll ask later, maybe, but for now he's so close to Brandon, so focused on him, and fuck, fuck, Brandon just wants.

“C’mon, please,” Brandon says, “can you just-”

“Just what?” Nick asks, just to be contrary, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, lets his thumb press into Brandon’s navel, making his stomach muscles tense and twitch under the pressure of his palm. He nuzzles into Brandon’s neck at the same time, lips dragging over the warm skin, tongue tracing the delicate flutter of the veins in Brandon’s throat as blood moves through his body.

Brandon makes a soft, pleased noise and lets his head fall back onto the pillow, giving Nick free rein, his neck exposed, open and wanting. But Nick’s got a different idea in mind, it seems.

Nick wriggles carefully, sliding down Brandon’s body, keeping a hand or his mouth or his cheek on his skin, making sure he always knows where Nick is, giving him a touch to focus on. Brandon’s quiet watching him, not entirely sure where this is going. He raises an eyebrow as Nick rubs his cheek over the side of Brandon’s hip, but doesn’t bite, just leaves the faintest trace of beard burn; he gasps as he runs his nails lightly over his abs, leaving pink-white marks in his wake. He gasps again as he licks up the underside of Brandon’s dick — Brandon moans and clutches white-knuckled at the bedclothes — but Nick keeps moving, onward, down. He slides carefully off the edge of the mattress and winds up on his knees beside the bed.

“Oh,” Brandon says, getting it, as Nick gets his hands under Brandon’s thighs and just hauls him closer, so he’s got his shoulders between Brandon’s legs, eye level with and mere inches away from his junk.

“Oh fuck,” Brandon says, very quietly, as Nick leans in, mouths over his balls and then licks his way back up and around his dick. Brandon shudders but manages to mostly hold still, his thighs tense under Nick’s hands.

It’s not the first time he’s given Brandon a blowjob, but it is the first time that it’s been even remotely close to anything that’s reminded Brandon that Nick’s not just human. If nothing else, it’s the first time he’s had his mouth on Brandon’s body without a healthy dose of his pre-mixed smoothies before they fuck around to distract his body from that set of urges.

Brandon’s hips jerk up just the slightest amount, torn between the urge to rock up into the warmth of Nick’s mouth and the equally instinctive urge to freeze in place when there are sharp, pointy teeth very close to somewhere delicate.

Nick pulls off for a second and Brandon can see him taking a deep breath, probably — if Brandon’s any judge of Nick’s usual thought processes — reminding himself to get a firmer grasp on his own self-control. He seems to have made sure his lips are covering his teeth better before he leans in to suck Brandon’s dick again, which Brandon appreciates, because the whole biting thing was great, yeah, but that’s probably not an entry-level move for either of them.

They’re both making a lot of noise by the time Nick appears to remember that he actually has a plan here, leaning back for a second to spit into his own hand. He makes sure Brandon sees him do it, and then curls his fingers around the length of Brandon’s dick, giving him soft, even strokes before lowering his mouth again. Brandon shivers at that, long shudders rippling along his backbone, locking his muscles up for a second or two, hot and cold and almost overwhelming.

Nick gives the head of Brandon’s dick some more direct attention, until Brandon’s writhing under him, sweating and swearing and trying to buck up off the mattress, and then he pulls off, breathes hot and slow across spit-damp skin, just watching hungrily as Brandon whines. He’s straining his neck to stare at Nick, too desperate to manage anything more.

Nick ducks his head again at last, but he doesn’t do what Brandon’s expecting, doesn’t go right back for his dick; instead he buries his face in the crease of Brandon’s thigh, mouths over the spot where his blood’s running hot and closest to the skin, lets the very faintest hint of sharp tooth scrape lightly over Brandon’s femoral artery.

Brandon moans, tries futilely to thrust up enough to get something, anything in the way of friction, his breath running ragged.

“Fuck, please,” he says, and Nick freezes for a second, as if he’s shocked even himself, like he’s taken a step he didn’t mean to, even with as careful as he’s been with Brandon so far.

“Fucking do it,” Brandon says, staring down his own body to make eye contact with Nick, keeping his expression steady even though his whole body is trembling, wound tight with eagerness and seriously turned on.

Nick seems to be wrestling with temptation, and Brandon can see the tremor in his muscles where he’s holding himself back, his teeth out enough that Brandon can see the difference, can guess just how much he wants to bite.

“Brandon,” Nick says, his voice rough, ragged with wanting. “Brandon, can I—?” He lays his hand on Brandon’s thigh, presses his thumb delicately over where Brandon’s pulse is beating nineteen to the dozen, lets the nail dig in in a pale imitation of what he wants to do with his teeth.

“Yes,” Brandon says, urgently. “Come on, it’s safe enough, I trust you, Nick, please,” and Nick takes him at his word, ducks his head right away, gets his mouth on Brandon’s skin and bites down, quick and hard and accurate.

Brandon moans again, back arching up as the sensation cuts right through him, somehow even more overwhelming than it had been when Nick had just had his mouth on his neck. He feels almost more vulnerable now, even though that distinction has to be pretty much academic. Something about looking down to see Nick’s head between his legs like that hits right at the intersection of desire and need and trust, and Brandon’s pretty sure he’s got about thirty seconds before he’s going to lose it one way or another.

It turns out that Nick has enough control to stop after just a mouthful or three, and it would be sweet to see how careful he is in checking to make sure he hasn’t done any damage, that Brandon’s skin is already healing, knitting back together exactly as fast as it should do, but Brandon doesn’t want careful right then, Brandon wants- Brandon just wants more.

He’s even mostly hard still, the momentary strain on his circulatory system not lasting long to do anything more than have his dick flag slightly, which seems promising enough; he’s going to scream or do something embarrassing if he can’t get off soon.

“Fuck,” Brandon says, getting enough conscious control of his faculties back to manage that much, and then, “fuck,” a second time, the syllables drawn out and lengthening over the vowel as Nick swallows his dick down again, sucking him off fast and ruthlessly.

Just like he’d expected, it takes hardly any time at all before he’s coming, collapsing limp and sticky and sated into the mattress. Nick manages to find enough energy to crawl back up onto the mattress and then flops down beside him, a line of solid heat by his side.

“That was so good,” Brandon says a few minutes later, reaching over to pat clumsily at Nick’s hip. His head is spinning like he’s gone ten rounds of shots with Shawzy, or like he’s said something really stupid to an opponent with no compunction about dropping the gloves. “I mean. Wow. Leds.”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees, sounding almost as shell-shocked as Brandon feels. “Wow.”

“Just- just give me a sec,” Brandon says, still petting Nick’s side. His hand’s almost steady again now, and Nick’s skin feels good, warm and a little rough, skin prickling up on goosebumps where the fine hair is standing on end.

“What for?” Nick asks, slow and sleepy, like Brandon’s the one confusing him.

“Uh,” Brandon says slowly, waiting for Nick to catch up. He can’t believe how patient Nick’s been. “To get you off?”

“Nah, you’re good,” Nick says lazily.

“You don’t want to?” Brandon asks, hesitantly. Jesus, if this is half as good for Nick as it is for Brandon then he can’t imagine why anyone would give this up.

Nick reaches over without looking and tries to pat Brandon’s shoulder. He kind of misses, but Brandon gives him points for effort, at least.

“Already did,” Nick says. “I said ‘wow’, right?”

“Oh,” Brandon says, and actually, that’s so hot that he’s pretty sure his brain has shut down in self-defense.

Apparently he’s quiet for a little too long, because by the time they’ve both got their breathing back to normal, Nick rolls over, leaning on one elbow to look down at Brandon. He’s frowning like something’s just occurred to him.

“How’d you know that was, uh, safe?” he asks. “Because, uh. This was your first time with,” he makes a face, like he knows how this sounds, but keeps going, “you know, with getting bitten. Right?”

“I know how to use a computer, Leds,” Brandon says, eyes still closed. He’s so tired now. Apparently donating blood and then coming your brains out is surprisingly exhausting.

“Huh?” Nick says, because apparently getting off really does make him slower than usual.

“I looked it up,” Brandon says, and his tone this time definitely says, ‘you idiot’. It should have occurred to Nick that Brandon didn’t have to just wait for him to drip-feed him information. It’s 2014, he can look this stuff up himself too, thanks.

“We’re going to talk about believing everything you read on the internet later, Saader,” he says, taking a moment to digest that.

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” Brandon says, and with his eyes still closed he rolls over and cuddles up against Nick. Nick curls into him immediately, and it’s immensely satisfying. “Besides, it’s not like I checked _Wikipedia_.”

At that, Nick starts to laugh helplessly, his body shaking gently against Brandon’s. He manages to choke that down after a minute, but then moves away, prompting an automatic grumble from Brandon. He was _comfortable_. It turns out Nick’s only moving away long enough to reach out and tug the blanket they’d shoved off the end of the bed back up onto the mattress so they can curl up under it, which is acceptable, Brandon supposes. It wasn’t like he was going to be fit to move any time soon.

“Showoff,” Brandon mumbles into his chest, but given the way he’s wrapped limpet-like around Nick he’s pretty sure he’s not going to take it as a serious insult.

* * *

By the time July rolls around, Nick’s more or less moved into Brandon’s apartment, hasn’t been back to his own place in maybe two weeks. Brandon has a sneaking suspicion that Andy thinks he’s gone back to Minnesota already, even. Since they’re having trouble doing more than eating, cursorily working out, and then just going right back to bed, he’s not actually sure though, because he hasn’t seen Shawzy or anyone else in weeks either.

Admittedly, he’s been working up far more of a sweat fucking around with Nick than actually doing any other kind of exercise, but he knows that’s not going to cut it for much longer. They have to admit that if they’re going home to train ahead of the next season then they really do have to leave Chicago already, and Brandon starts looking at flights, emails the guys who he usually trains with in Pittsburgh, starts planning. He gives himself another three days grace, but that means he’s going to have to talk to Nick about it soon. Preferably without getting distracted and ending up naked again. Or at least, not until after they’ve finished talking.

He pushes the last few bites of his dinner around the plate that night, the world’s most obvious tell and a completely transparent delaying tactic. Brandon gives himself a mental kick in the pants and puts his fork down, looking up to catch Leds’ eye as well. He looks discomfited, like Brandon’s clear distraction is rubbing off on him, too.

Brandon opens his mouth to say, ‘I need to go back to Pittsburgh-’ just in time for Nick to say, brow furrowed and chewing on his lower lip the same way he always does when he’s second-guessing things, “I think I need to go back to Minnesota soon.”

“Oh,” Brandon says, losing track entirely of what he’d been about to say. “Yeah, me too. I mean, to Pittsburgh,” he corrects hurriedly, because he’s not trying to invite himself home with Nick, that’s- that’s a lot, that would be a big step, even if they did get pretty serious fast. At least, Brandon doesn’t think it’s just sex.

“I think- I’ll drive back this weekend?” Nick says, only it comes out more like a question than a statement.

“I was looking at flights then,” Brandon confesses, “Not that this isn’t, um.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nick says. “Gotta get back in shape. And I guess see my family.”

“You’re just going to spend half your free time out on the lake,” Brandon points out, because he’s been friends with Nick for a lot longer than they’ve been fucking and he _knows_ him.

“Well, duh,” Nick says. “Like you’re not doing the same with your boat.”

“I think we’re spending time down in the Carolinas, actually,” Brandon says, but it’s not like they won’t take the boat, so he has to give Nick the point.

“So we’re- good, then?” Nick asks slowly. “It’s not that I want a break, just-”

“You’ve got things you have to do,” Brandon finishes. “We both know how it is, Leds, I wasn’t expecting anything else either.”

Nick’s expression clears, like he had been worrying about this more than Brandon had quite realized. “Great,” he says. “And, uh, if you want to visit later this summer, that would be cool.”

Brandon feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Want to bring me home to meet the folks?”

Nick stretches out his legs to kick Brandon gently in the calf; it’s probably the easiest spot to reach since Brandon insists that they eat at the table rather than on the couch, even when Nick gives him the serious pleading puppy-dog eyes about it. “Fuck off, you’ve already met my family.”

“And they like me,” Brandon says, giving him a sunny smile. He knows that’s true; he also knows it’s a little aggravating when he plays it up. So sue him, it’s fun to wind Nick up sometimes.

“Everyone likes you,” Nick grumbles, but he’s hiding a smile, too.

Brandon pushes his chair back and stretches out, rolling his shoulders, trying to get the kinks out of his back after they’ve been sitting for a while. He’s pretty much done with dinner, and it’s not like there’s anything good on TV in the middle of summer anyway. He turns his head first one way and then the other, lets his head fall back in a gentle stretch, knows exactly how much that exposes his neck.

When he straightens up again Nick’s giving him a newly familiar look, eyes hot and lips demurely pressed together. If Brandon leaned over the table now to kiss him he’d have to be careful; he’s learned all the ways Nick tries to hide his teeth when he feels vulnerable, even though it’s hard to tell even if you _know_. Apparently he’s never got out of the habit of being self-conscious, and Brandon’s torn between wishing he didn’t and enjoying the extra thrill from the vaguely illicit sensation of pushing him until he forgets that.

“I’m done eating,” he says, somewhat unnecessarily, his knife and fork lying haphazardly across the middle of his plate. “You still hungry?”

He catches Nick’s eyes then, and it’s clear that they’re both well aware Brandon’s not talking about _dinner_ anymore.

Nick licks his lips, slowly and deliberately, and Brandon’s stomach twists, his heartbeat echoing in his ears, cheeks feeling hot and his pants abruptly too tight. No matter how many times they’ve done this now, it never fails to affect him, too.

“Yeah,” Nick says, and he pushes back from the table, leaves his plate and Brandon’s there; they can clear up properly later. “That sounds good. You wanna get naked already?”

“No game at all,” Brandon mutters to himself, but there’s something to be said for how direct Nick is, and he’s starting to shed clothes before he’s even halfway down the hall towards his bedroom. He has Nick — already down to his briefs, and one of them is going to trip on the jeans in the middle of the room later, probably — all over him before they even make it as far as the bed.

If they order in a few times they can probably make it through another two days without actually leaving the apartment, he thinks, and as Nick’s palm curls around Brandon’s dick at the exact same moment that he bites down at the side of his throat, Brandon thinks hazily that it sounds like a pretty fucking perfect goal.

* * *

Brandon comes back to town in time for the convention, figures he can sneak Nick into his hotel room, and they can catch up in private as well as with the rest of their teammates. He’s been determinedly ignoring all the speculation that’s been starting to buzz around the team ever since summer started, trying not to hear the names that keep coming up in trade talk. The media’s full of shit, they always are, it’s nothing new.

And then Nick’s not there.

Brandon feels kind of stupid; he hadn’t even asked, he’d just assumed Nick would be in town too. He gets dinner with Sharpy and Bicks and tries to act normal, catches up on what they’ve been doing, and that turns into a lot of sitting there quietly while they have new-father type conversations. Brandon can coo over baby pictures, sure, but he doesn’t really have much else to contribute there.

He goes back to his room early and tosses up whether to even ask, settles for just texting Leds with a “:(”, it’s not like he’s going to have trouble guessing the context.

“They said I could skip,” Nick texts him back, not all that long afterward. Brandon has a sneaking suspicion Nick had been waiting for this conversation, even though he claims the vampire thing is 100% mind-reading and future-telling free. Sometimes Nick knows him a little too well, maybe.

Brandon just sends him another couple of sad face emojis.

“I figured I should stay home and keep working out,” Nick replies. “Just. In case, you know.”

Brandon knows, but he doesn’t have to like it.

“Can I come see you in a couple weeks?” Nick adds, and Brandon has “Yes” typed out embarrassingly quickly, tries to play it cool by just sitting there with his phone in his hand for a few minutes before he hits ‘send’, but it’s probably pretty obvious all the same.

“Awesome,” Nick sends back. “Have fun, say hi to the guys, yeah?”

Brandon can probably manage that much.

* * *

Nick spends a week in Pittsburgh with him, and they even manage to spend some time doing things that aren’t just essentially exchanging one or more bodily fluids.

The fact Brandon’s still living with his parents when he’s in town contributes to that, of course; they’ve met Nick before and they like him, and they even seem to be pretty happy with the idea of him as Brandon’s boyfriend, but there’s only so much Brandon’s comfortable doing when he knows his mom and dad are just down the hall. It’s not like they don’t know he and Nick are sleeping together; his dad hadn’t even tried to suggest Nick take the guest room, and his mom had just calmly asked him if he needed any more pillows before saying goodnight to them both, but he’s feeling too self-conscious to do anything more than kiss Nick when they go to bed the first night he’s in town.

Nick doesn’t push him on it, although he does tease him, just a little, and Brandon is absolutely remembering this to use against Nick whenever they spend time in Minnesota with his folks. Although, they raised Nick as a mostly-well adjusted hockey-playing vampire teenager, so maybe they’re harder to upset. Or Nick’s just better at being a grown up than Brandon is. He’s also got a couple years head-start there, Brandon thinks with a touch of jealousy.

“Stop thinking,” Nick mumbles, his breath hot and a little sour against the side of Brandon’s neck, his beard scratching Brandon’s bare shoulder. It’s too hot to sleep with more than boxers for basic modesty and a sheet, and if Brandon wasn’t being wildly paranoid that the smoke alarm will go off at 4am or something like that, he wouldn’t even bother with that much clothing.

“Sorry,” Brandon says quietly; he hopes that Nick gets he means for more than just the fact he’s restless and fidgety. They haven’t seen each other in weeks, Brandon wants to get off, and more importantly, he wants to take Nick apart. They had a lot of sex in Chicago, sure, but all it’s done now is give Brandon a far-too-comprehensive grasp of just exactly what he’s missing out on.

Nick sits up, and Brandon opens his mouth to add more apologies, but Nick just crawls on top of him, his weight pushing Brandon back into the too-soft mattress. He should really get a new bed, he’s had this same one since he was in middle school or maybe even longer; he’s pretty much too tall for it anyway. Brandon’s hands come up to steady him, palms flat against Nick’s sides, too greedy not to take this much even if he’s going to tap out pretty fast on whatever Nick wants to start here.

Instead of groping him or even going for anything remotely PG-rated, Nick just leans in and kisses him again, mouth soft. He keeps his teeth out of it, demure and simple and completely unobjectionable. Brandon kisses him back, relaxes again as it becomes clear that Nick’s not going to push him. That lasts for a while, and then Nick mouths down the curve of his jaw, lays wet kisses over the skin of his throat, stopping to suck a mark into the base of Brandon’s neck, exactly where he likes to bite when they’re doing that. Brandon goes boneless under him at that, his body too well trained to expect the hot burst of pleasure, the needle-sharp moment of pain that trips over into euphoria faster than seems reasonable. It feels good even when Nick doesn’t actually take anything, and Brandon has to bite his lip before he moans anyway.

Nick gives him an appreciative look at that, but he also rolls off Brandon and curls into his side again; an effective if wholly silent punctuation mark on that scene, and Brandon closes his eyes and counts back from ten, reminds himself that he doesn’t actually get off on the idea of being overheard. Better to be slightly frustrated now than even more frustrated later and still unable to get off. At least this way he can jerk off in the shower tomorrow morning instead of having to take a for-completely-obvious-reasons cold shower at midnight.

“Seriously, stop thinking,” Nick says, patting his hip sleepily. “We can pick this up in the morning.”

That’s maybe a little hopeful, but then Nick goes on to ask, “Your parents both work tomorrow, right?” and Brandon blinks and says, “Oh! Yes,” and yeah, they can definitely pick this up again once they have the house to themselves.

* * *

Brandon shells out for a hotel room one afternoon later that week, feeling extravagant and a tiny bit silly but mostly really into the idea of being able to fuck Nick without there being any chance of someone he knows overhearing them. His parents think he’s showing Nick around the city after they’re done with their workout in the morning; Brandon figures Nick’s seen enough of Pittsburgh by that point and just hands over his credit card at the front desk without a qualm. The clerk hardly even looks twice at them. Brandon pays extra for the automatic checkout the next morning, and he figures that’s unexceptionable enough that no one will ever notice that they’re only spending a couple hours there.

He’s hardly got the comforter off the king-size bed before Nick pounces on him, tugging at his shirt, shoving it up his chest impatiently as they tumble into the clean white sheets. Brandon goes with it for a few seconds and then realizes he’s still wearing his shoes for fuckssake, let alone pants and everything else. He starts laughing and pushes at Nick until he sits up and lets Brandon actually start stripping off properly, with barely restrained patience. If they weren’t meeting some of Brandon’s friends for dinner after this he’d be tempted to see if Nick would actually try to tear his shirt off; the look in his eye says he’d give it a damn good try for sure.

Brandon lets his clothes pile up on the floor by the bed — nothing he’s wearing is going to crease noticeably so fuck it — and he’s just peeling his socks off when he looks over to realize Nick’s still mostly dressed.

“Hey,” Brandon says. “You catching up any time soon?”

“Oh, yeah,” Nick says, but he watches Brandon move for a few more seconds before standing up to get out of his own clothes.

Brandon’s been naked in front of a lot of people, it’s kind of an occupational hazard, and it’s not like he’s lacked for partners in bed either, but something about the way that Nick watches him - proprietary, _hungry_ \- goes straight to his head, gets him turned on so fast he’s almost dizzy with it.

It helps that he’s pretty sure he looks at Nick much the same way, and just like he’d always figured would be the case, their chemistry in bed seems to be just as good as it is on the ice.

Nick leans in for a kiss as soon as they’re both naked, his hands restless on Brandon’s skin, shifting from his shoulders down over his biceps and then back to his ribs.

That feels good, and it gets better as Brandon lets his own hands smooth over Nick’s back, sweeping down to grab his ass, muffling a pleased sound into Nick’s mouth as Nick squirms on top of him. They line themselves up so they’re touching from chest to knees, Nick’s thigh pushing between Brandon’s, grinding his dick into the smooth divot under his hip bone, already hard and smearing wetly over Brandon’s skin.

“So what do you- fuck, what did you wanna do?” Brandon manages to get out, panting against Nick’s mouth, pretty goddamn distracted by how much he just wants to come already, even though they’ve hardly started.

Nick’s breathing fast, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and Brandon knows if he put a hand over his heart then he’d be able to feel it hammering, too; getting to know Nick’s body like this has disproved any number of dumb vampire stereotypes. He tilts his head up to kiss Brandon again before answering, voice unsteady, colored by want, and tripping over his sibilants as he gives in and lets his teeth lengthen.

Kissing him when he’s like that is actually pretty hot, Brandon thinks, and he’s careful and attentive as he kisses back; sure, getting bitten feels fucking good, but he doesn’t actually want Nick to bite his tongue. They’ve done that by accident once - Brandon has learned patience, it doesn’t always come naturally - and it wasn’t terrible but it wasn’t great either.

“You should fuck me,” Nick says eventually, and Brandon goes hot all over, feels his fingertips and toes tingle with it.

They’ve traded off a couple times, and Brandon likes getting fucked as much as the proverbial next guy - especially when the next guy is Nick, apparently - but he can’t deny how good it feels to be on the other side of that, either. They haven’t been able to do more than the odd handjob or blowjob in a while, though, so mostly he just hopes he can last long enough to make it really good.

“Roll over then,” Brandon suggests practically, and they shift around until Nick’s spread out on the sheets under him. Brandon gets up long enough to retrieve lube and condoms - still in his bag, they really didn’t waste any time before jumping each other - and then spends long moments kissing Nick some more before sitting up to do anything else.

He takes a mental snapshot of the moment: the way Nick’s face is flushed, high color along his cheekbones, pink creeping down his neck and lower, just faintly visible through the dark hair on his chest, his nipples going hard when Brandon licks his fingers and rubs lightly over first one and then the other.

Nick makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat, as close as he gets to begging, so Brandon stops teasing, picks up the lube again. A minute or two later he’s got two fingers in Nick, absorbed in the way he shifts and sweats, arching into Brandon’s hands. He lets himself linger over that, adding a third finger as Nick curses, breath catching in his throat, works him up more and more until Nick reaches out and grabs Brandon’s other wrist, grip like iron, and says tightly, “Brandon, please- I’m good, come on, fuck me already, fuck.”

Brandon gives him a long look confirming that, and as ever likes what he sees: Nick’s hair thoroughly messed up with the way he’s been shifting on the mattress, dark streaks of sweat along his temples and behind his ears, dick hard against his belly, even darker pink against the pale skin, his chest and shoulders moving as he tries to keep his breathing calm, the points of his teeth pressing into his lip as he stares back at Brandon.

“Okay, okay,” Brandon says, patting a comforting hand over his hip - the one with lube on it, of course, so it slips and smears over his skin there, thumb skidding down into the dark hair of his groin. Brandon just watches his hand move for a moment, gives Nick a short teasing stroke from the base of his cock all the way up to the head, feels it jump against his hand.

“You’re a fucking tease,” Nick grits out, and then while Brandon’s getting the condom on he adds, “Oh, shit, I forgot to ask-” Brandon freezes momentarily, “-can I, I want to bite you, it’s been so fucking long,” and Brandon lets the breath he’s been holding out in one quick, relieved gasp.

“Yeah,” Brandon says, and he knows it shows on his face how much he wants it, too.

Nick’s always so fucking- so hesitant to ask, despite the fact that Brandon’s wanted to let him for a lot longer than Nick’s actually let himself do it. He’s not sure he could explain it to anyone else, or not to anyone else who hasn’t been bitten, although maybe it’s different if you’re not sleeping with the vampire concerned. He doesn’t know about that. Maybe he could ask Andy some time; although he’s not sure Nick’s actually fed off anyone in Chicago other than the odd one night stand. The fact he’s actually telling people now seems like a good omen, though. He seems more relaxed about it, although that could just equally be how much time they’ve spent in bed this off-season. It’s definitely the most sex Brandon’s had in a long time, maybe ever.

They take a little time getting situated again, and Brandon urges Nick more into the middle of the bed, makes sure he doesn’t want a pillow under his head or need anything else. He slides two fingers back inside him first, just checking, lets his thumb catch along his rim. Nick arches up and makes a noise that goes right to Brandon’s dick, and if he doesn’t get moving this is going to all be over a lot faster than either of them wants. It only takes a couple more seconds after that for Brandon to push inside him, biting his own lip to keep himself focused, and when he looks back up to catch Nick’s gaze he can actually see the way his eyes darken in response.

Brandon starts to move once they’ve both found their balance, not letting himself rush. They’ve got all afternoon, they can go again later probably too, there’s no pressure. Nick feels so good under him, around him; hot and yielding, moving with Brandon easily.

Once he’s found a rhythm Brandon lets himself collapse down from his elbows and forearms, all his weight going onto Nick. Nick just takes it, makes a satisfied sound and arches up encouragingly. Brandon finds his mouth for a quick kiss, but that’s not quite right, not for either of them, and he feels like he’s moving in slow motion as he sits up a little more - gets a better angle that makes Nick’s body clench around his dick, too - and bares his throat for Nick, eyes drifting closed.

He can feel Nick’s breath on his skin first, hot puffs of air, and then there’s a light scraping sensation from the edges of his teeth, as Nick hunts out the sweet spot, lining himself up and then biting down.

This time it doesn’t even hurt for more than a microsecond, a flash of awareness that’s almost immediately buried underneath the onslaught of good feelings, pleasure and pressure tangling together as Nick sucks hard, his own throat moving as he swallows. It’s enough to tilt Brandon right over the edge, so close to coming already, and it only gets better when Nick tips his head back to get more, his teeth dragging over Brandon’s skin as he shifts, chasing just a little more of a taste. The heated awareness of Nick’s bite swirls along his nerves and wraps tight around his backbone, ruthlessly merging with the hot rush of gratification that comes from being buried balls-deep in him, and Brandon can’t swallow the loud moan as he comes hard, hips snapping forward one more time.

He thinks Nick might still have his mouth fastened to his throat as Brandon stops moving entirely, going boneless and pliant on top of him, too fucked-out to even try to move further than that. Brandon blinks a few times as his brain slowly starts to accept sensible input again, notices that Nick is nuzzling at the crook of his neck, licking over the spot where he’d bitten him. It feels a little more sensitive than usual, the world still kind of fuzzy around the edges, and Brandon thinks maybe Nick took a bit more this time.

After another minute or so Brandon feels more like himself again, the after-effects of the bite wearing off, just leaving a feeling of intense satisfaction that has more than a little in common with post-coital smugness. Although Brandon’s got a decent helping of that, too.

Embarrassingly, it takes him until then to realize that Nick’s still hard under him, demonstrating admirable patience as he waits for Brandon to pull himself together.

“Wow,” Brandon says, a little dumbly, but he couples that with squirming up onto his elbows, bracing himself with his knees so he can get a hand between them, wrapping it around Nick’s dick.

“No kidding,” Nick replies, breathless and needy. “Saader, that was— oh god, I need to get off already, please.”

“You got it,” Brandon tells him, and starts moving his hand in fast tight strokes, lets his thumb drag over the slit, spreading more wetness around, his hand moving easily with the mixture of lube and sweat and come.

Nick arches up under him, hands twisting at his sides, breathing too fast, panting open-mouthed as he fucks Brandon’s fist. He’s watching Brandon’s hand on his dick, only the thinnest band of hazel visible around the pupils of his eyes, and Brandon doesn’t think he’s seen him lose it quite this spectacularly before; it’s hot enough that if there was even the slightest chance Brandon could get it up again this soon he would. Nick cries out not long after, head falling back and eyes squeezing closed as he comes, and Brandon just strokes him through it, gentling his touch, laying his other hand flat on Nick’s stomach, feeling the way his muscles tremble and twitch.

“Holy shit,” Nick says, a little later, after Brandon’s decided there’s no way to avoid getting even more filthy at this point, and he doesn’t actually care all that much anyway, just stretches out along his side, tucked into Nick’s warmth.

“Yeah,” Brandon says, letting his fingertips trace idle circles over Nick’s abs and up to his navel.

“That was really good,” Nick says, turning his head to look at Brandon face to face. Brandon just smiles back at him, feeling worn out in the best possible way.

“Yup,” Brandon agrees.

“I kinda like this thing where you’ve gone monosyllabic,” Nick teases after a moment, reaching out to pat Brandon’s hip, and if he sounds calm, the way his hand is still trembling a little gives the lie to that. That was- a lot of exertion, Brandon thinks lazily. They’ve worked their way all the way up to muscle fatigue. Go team.

“Show off,” Brandon says after a second’s thought, and Nick just laughs, mostly soundlessly.

“You want to nap for a bit?” Nick asks, making no move towards getting up or doing anything other than continuing to just lie there, tangled up in the sheets and each other. It’s a good question; Brandon is usually down for the count right after he gets off, and it hadn’t taken Nick more than, well, their first time to figure that out.

“…actually, I’m kind of starving,” Brandon admits, because that had been a lot, and also, well, blood loss - technically - even if the way it feels is its own reward.

“Room service?” Nick suggests, and Brandon manages to get enough energy together to sit up and kiss him, fast and sloppy.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re a fucking genius. I want steak.”

Nick laughs at him again, and points out it’s Brandon’s credit card, but after some half-hearted tussling they dig the room service menu out from the set of drawers by the bed, and call in an order. There’s no point in pretending they’ve been doing anything other than what they have, but Brandon still sends Nick into the bathroom to shower before the hotel can send a tray up, and he wraps himself in a towel and one of the complimentary robes hanging behind the door before he opens the door to sign for their food. Plausible deniability is all he’s really after.

The steak turns out to be excellent.

So does round two.

* * *

Brandon knuckles down on his summer training after Nick heads back to Minnesota, making sure he’s focused and in the best possible shape. The way their season had ended is pretty fucking motivating in that regard, he’s in no hurry to repeat that.

They all start drifting back into town the week before training camp, and Brandon’s relieved by how normal everything feels; it’s easier to carve out time to spend with Nick when they’ve got the same schedule to work in, instead of dealing with time zones and trying to catch up in the moments between seeing friends and family and keeping up their own individual training regimens.

Brandon’s been working with a couple of different coaches, sharing ice time with Tro and a few of the other Pittsburgh guys, and he’s quietly confident that he’s improved his game again, ready to pick up from right where he’d been before.

Nick stays over at Brandon’s a couple of nights, getting some extra time together before the season really starts. They’re going to have to be more careful then, but Brandon’s pretty sure he can be a professional about it. As professional as it’s possible to be, anyway.

“We should probably tell Shawzy,” he says, and Nick straightens up, his hands on Brandon’s thighs to push himself all the way upright as he gives Brandon a betrayed look.

“Do I want to know why you’re even thinking about him right now?”

Brandon bites his own lip, and then notes with smug self-satisfaction that Nick notices that, too.

“I just- this is probably the last time we’ll be able to do this for a while,” he says. “We still haven’t talked about, like, rules, or who’s allowed to know.”

“Saader,” Nick says, “I can’t believe you’d rather talk about this when I’m about to go down on you.”

Brandon opens his mouth to say he’s not saying Nick has to stop, but that’s stupid; Brandon isn’t going to be able to keep a sensible thought in his head once Nick gets his mouth on him anyway. And they really do need to talk about this, he’s already put it off a couple of times, and if he was putting money on it he’d say Nick’s done the same thing too.

Nick sighs, and pulls back enough to let Brandon sit up too. Having this conversation while they’re both naked and still hard is a little ridiculous, but Brandon’s committed now.

“Does… do you think Shawzer knows?” That question seems like the place to start; this is the second night in a row Nick’s slept over, and he has no idea what story he’s given Andy to explain why he’s out all night right before the season starts. He probably thinks Nick has a new girlfriend or something, and Brandon’s feelings about that idea are… complicated.

“He didn’t ask,” Nick says, “I don’t know, he might’ve guessed, but I don’t think he noticed anything when we were out with him and Mo the other night.”

The fact that nothing’s really changed about their behavior in front of other people since they started hooking up is probably more a damning indictment of their old status quo than it is anything else, but Brandon doesn’t need to say that part out loud.

“Do you want to tell?” Brandon asks. Nick lives with him, he’s been friends with Shawzy since before Brandon knew either of them, this kind of has to be up to him.

“Do you?” Nick counters.

“I- maybe,” Brandon says. “I think so. But I don’t want it to be a big deal, you know? I mean. This is really important, I don’t want to stop, but we’re probably going to have to dial it back during the season.”

Nick looks uncomfortable at that, although Brandon can’t tell if it’s at the prospect of dialing it back or at Brandon’s clumsy attempt to explain how he feels.

“It’s probably good that I don’t get my own room on the road yet, huh?” Brandon jokes awkwardly, and Nick’s expression gets even more uncomfortable.

“Brandon,” he says, “We should maybe- I really want to keep doing this,” and Brandon’s stomach sinks at that, freezing up like he’s been hit with a shock of cold water, “I think we could do long-distance. I’d want to try, anyway.”

Brandon shakes off the momentary paralysis and tries to argue, “Leds, you don’t know anything’s going to happen. There’s rumors every summer, and it’s usually bullshit.” He reaches out, gets his hands on Nick’s forearms almost without thinking about it, punctuating his words with that possessive touch. “I just want to make sure we figure out who needs to know before we have to worry about getting walked in on, you know?”

Brandon’s not saying he’s considering seeing just how many different states they can hook up in this year, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t at least idly considered it, a quick and dirty fantasy, even if they don’t actually act on it when they’re on the road for real.

“Saader, I’m getting traded,” Nick says gently. “It’s pretty much a given, you know that. I just don’t want to make plans for this season until we know.”

Brandon wants to argue with him, starts to, but he trails off before he can even finish the sentence. He knows as well as Nick does that he’s right, that it’s far more likely Nick’s getting traded away than it is the Hawks keep him, especially given how hard up against the cap they are. He’s been trying to push that knowledge to the back of his mind for weeks now, but now that Nick’s named the elephant in the room he can’t keep up the complete state of denial.

“This sucks,” he says, knowing he’s being childish.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Nick says, pulling a face, and Brandon feels worse for a split second, he’s being selfish, but then Nick screws up his face again, and it startles a laugh out of him.

“So we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it?” Brandon suggests, unwilling to abandon all hope. Weirder things have happened, anyway.

“Yeah,” Nick says. “And right now I’d kind of like to get back to what we were doing. Um, if you’re still in the mood.” Almost automatically Nick’s gaze drops to Brandon’s lap, and- okay, fine, even with the least sexy conversation in the world, Brandon’s still turned on, wants Nick’s hands and mouth back on him.

“Shit, come here,” Brandon says, and if he’s a little desperate when he kisses Nick this time, well. Neither of them has to tell anyone.

* * *

Summer begins to ebb away, and Nick’s still in Chicago, and still in Chicago, and by the time the preseason kicks off he’s still there. Brandon doesn’t say anything, but he’s starting to hope that the hypotheticals are just going to stay that way for one more year at least.

He and Brandon hang out on the beach the day before their last preseason game at home. They're incognito in sunglasses and ball caps and not a team logo in sight, not drawing attention to themselves. Brandon's got his arm slung casually around Nick's shoulders while they walk along the path, just two guys out enjoying the sun.

Later they end up making out, sprawled out on the picnic blanket that Brandon dug out from somewhere in the depths of his coat closet, just barely keeping them off the sand, and not doing a very good job at all in keeping the sand off them, although the wind doesn’t help, either. Brandon finds himself on his back without being entirely certain how he’d got there, Nick settled firmly on top of him, weight pushing him down into the sand, which molds itself to the curve of his backbone. Nick kisses him, hot and easy, breathing him in and out, minding his teeth. His hands are on the sides of Brandon’s face, thumbs stroking over the last remnants of his beard, fingers sunk into the newly-short strands of hair behind his ears.

It’s a sweet kiss, or it should be, but Brandon can feel Nick hard against him, even through their jeans, and he’s not exactly far behind him in terms of how quickly he’s gone from teasing and affection to near-desperate arousal. Nick pulls away long enough to dip his head to lick over the junction between Brandon’s neck and shoulder, drags his lips up the line of his throat, and nuzzles in. Brandon just goes limp underneath him, too well-conditioned by then to react any other way, and Nick just casually ups the ante, scrapes the flat edges of his teeth over Brandon’s collarbone and makes his hips jerk up.

About then they have to admit that what they’re doing is getting a little too heavy for being in public, so they reluctantly shuffle apart, except Nick wraps his fingers around Brandon's wrist suggestively, tugs him closer, and Brandon goes still and bites his lip and breathes out “yeah”, turning his wrist in Nick's hand so that he's palm up, offering.

Nick looks at him again, checking in, and then lets himself accept, mouth fastening to Brandon's wrist for a long minute that leaves them both shaky and flushed, and then in a tearing hurry to get back to Brandon's apartment.

After they make it back and get the first frantic need out of their system Nick picks up Brandon's wrist again, and mouths over the delicate skin, licking at the faint mark where the flesh has already healed.

Brandon just shudders, appreciating the shivery way that touch plays along his nerves, and then frowns, remembering to ask, "Hey, you don’t think that'll affect my shot, do you?"

Nick just laughs and laughs, because apparently Brandon's perfectly willing to trust him not to take anything more than he should, but he'll worry about being fit to play.

Brandon doesn’t exactly think there’s anything wrong with those priorities."Well, would you want to explain that to Q?" he points out and, Nick has to admit that okay, yeah, fine, he maybe has a point.

* * *

Four days later, Nick’s an Islander.

Brandon doesn’t quite know how to react; he’s glad he’s alone when he hears the news, because he doesn’t want to think about what his face had done before he could pull himself together.

He flips the message app on his phone open almost on autopilot. So this is the other shoe dropping. Nick’s phone is probably already filling up with congratulations and condolences - most of them probably in the same message - and Brandon suddenly doubts whether this is the best way to do this.

“Can I come over before you have to leave?” he sends, after minute’s thought, and Nick must’ve been waiting for him, because his reply is almost instant.

“Yeah,” he says, and a second message arrives almost immediately, “Shawzy’s not home,” which is good, in a way, since it means that when Brandon lets himself in fifteen minutes later he can grab Nick and kiss him just as desperately as he wants to.

Nick’s not as cool, calm and collected as he looked on first glance, either; he’s careless enough to catch Brandon’s lip against his teeth for the first time in weeks, and more than the momentary pain Brandon can feel how tense he is under his hands.

“I have to fly out tonight,” Nick says reluctantly, when they finally break apart. “I mean, I’m packed, mostly, just- we don’t have a lot of time.”

“I want more,” Brandon says; he’s been thinking about it for a couple of weeks now, and if he hadn’t been sure whether those decisions would hold up in the cold light of day, he knows now.

“Um,” Nick says, brows drawing together, not following, and Brandon hurries to explain himself better.

“I want more time. You said- you’d try long-distance? I want that too.”

“Oh,” Nick says, “Oh, good, I mean, fuck, yes, me too. _Brandon_.”

“Take me to bed or lose me forever?” Brandon jokes, starting to walk Nick backwards towards the open door of his bedroom. The covers on his bed are a rumpled mess, and there’s clothes and other various belongings strewn everywhere; when Nick said he was mostly packed Brandon takes that to mean that he’d done a whirlwind last pass through the room for anything he’d need urgently and was going to just leave the rest to deal with later.

“That’s a terrible line,” Nick complains, sitting down before pulling Brandon on top of him, both of their legs hanging off the side of the mattress still. It’s good enough, Brandon’s just fine like this, bright urgency thrumming along his nerves. “I mean, it’s gonna work, but it’s still terrible.”

Brandon pulls away for a moment to look indignant.

“That movie’s a classic,” he says.

“Didn’t we talk about how I refuse to be your wingman,” Nick says after a moment, hands already busily at work in getting Brandon’s clothes off.

“I think that was Shawzy, actually,” Brandon says, breathless, and before he can say anything else - or correct Nick’s grasp of movie quotes - he’s got Nick’s hands shoving his pants down, and his mouth settling easily over the vein on the side of his throat, tongue rasping over the skin before he bites down, and then Brandon’s got a whole lot of other things to distract him.

They get Nick to O’Hare just in time for his flight. Brandon doesn’t kiss him goodbye - even if it’s not going to be a secret they’re still going to keep this quiet - but he feels more settled than he expects to. They’ve got this.


	3. Epilogue

Leddy meets up with everyone for lunch the day before they’re due to play the Islanders in December, and it’s good to see him, Andy’s been missing him maybe more than he likes to admit.

Boller being in Calgary and Leds out on Long Island means it’s pretty much just Andy and Saader and Smitty left, and what Andy’s doing isn’t sulking, no matter what Chaunette says. He’s fine. But it’s still good to see Leds, and even better to spend half of their meal chirping him nonstop. He’s got, like, three months worth of shit to give him, there’s no way he’s going to be able to cover all the important points out on the ice tomorrow. Andy has to get a head start here.

They’re in the hotel that night, and it’s not like Andy has any plans, the Isles are off too, so he’s kind of half-expecting - without really stopping to ask - that maybe Leds will dig out his Xbox and hang with them at his place, or come back to the hotel to see some of the other guys. Andy knows full well he’s got the XBox in New York with him, because he fielded at least three calls asking for him to send the other controller - “And not your fucking broken one, you dick,” - and he’d even gone so far as to actually FedEx it to Leds. Which also means he has his address all ready to give to their Uber driver, and then Leds just straightens up from where he’s been murmuring something into Saader’s ear, looks from him to Bicks to Smitty, and then back to Andy, and is all, “So, we’re gonna ditch you guys now, okay?” and he _has his hand in the back pocket of Saader’s jeans_ , and when the fuck did this happen and why didn’t anyone tell him already?

Andy’s not saying he’s crass enough to have put money on betting two of his friends would at least have some kind of bad decision hook-up at least once, but since this is clearly an established thing, it just means he’s never going to be able to get them to confirm when it actually did happen. Which means he’s not getting cash from Stals or Boller or a favor from Sharpy. This is just fucking unfair, honestly.

Leddy’s looking a little uneasy as he scans their expressions, and Andy supposes he can’t really blame him; not everyone is going to take knowing their friends are totally banging well, although he does think they should’ve had a little more faith in his imperturbability. This is way less surprising than Leds' whole “by the way I'm a vampire” thing had been, which, by the way, is a secret Andy was keeping very well for almost two years now, so he’s also a little pissed they didn’t tell him earlier. He doesn’t blurt out the important shit.

He does know what’s expected of him in this kind of scenario though, so he fixes the two of them with a mock-stern look, and asks, "What are you doing?"

As far as he’s concerned they could hang out and play video games for a bit first and then let Leds and Saader go off to do whatever naked stuff they’re clearly dying to do, but at a guess that suggestion is going to go down like-

Well, maybe Andy shouldn’t use that simile out loud today, probably.

Nick is just looking at Brandon like he’s expecting him to handle this, so apparently they didn’t actually plan all that well either. Brandon just sort of shrugs to himself and then looks Andy dead in the eyes and is all, "Leds wanted to meet up for lunch."

"Uh, duh, and?" Andy replies, because, hello, that much was obvious, given that they’ve just had lunch, Andy remembers from having been there.

And then Saader adds, "So we hung out with you losers first and now Leds is getting a snack," going with heavy emphasis, like there’s a point there that he wants them to pick up already.

There’s a moment, and then Andy gets it, knows he’s making exactly the shocked face that, well, he’d want to see if he was Brandon, probably.

"Wait,” he splutters, putting the pieces together, “You're- Saader, _you're_ lunch- HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?" and whoops, that was probably louder than anyone needed them to be in a semi-public place.

Saader has the grace to look slightly embarrassed, although that might also be because Andy’s kind of making a scene, but that’s why they shouldn’t just spring this shit on him, Jesus. Smitty has faded back slightly, leaning against the wall of the restaurant, laughing himself stupid, being no help whatsoever. Bicks is just standing by him quietly giving Andy a look that has a lot of eyebrow action, which also probably means Andy’s gonna have to do some fast talking when they get back to the hotel, too. Jeez, Andy did not sign up for any of this. If anyone should be giving their teammates - well, his and Saader’s, Leddy’s ex-teammates, but whatever, details - if _anyone_ should be giving them the ‘when two bros like each other a lot, and are also into dick, and ps did we mention Leds has fangs sometimes?’ talk, well. It’s not him.

"Okay, yeah, talk to you later, gotta go," Saader says, way too fast, and almost shoves Leds towards his car, doing his best to make a speedy escape. Andy hopes he’s fully aware he's going to hear about this later. At _length_.

"Yeah," Nick says, giving Andy a grin with a lot more teeth than he usually shows. He’s so much more laid back now, and Andy knows him, has more than a sneaking suspicion that he’s  _enjoying_ this. "I hate to eat and run." And then he wraps his hand around Brandon's forearm and leads him - entirely willingly - over to his car.

There’s no way Andy’s letting them get away with getting the last word, so he squawks indignantly and yells, "If you break him you bought him," after them, which is not the smoothest of chirps, but hey, he tried.   
  
* * *

"You know, you could have _told me_ ," Andy says to Brandon later, when Brandon is sprawled out on his bed in their hotel room, all lazy and slow and cat-that-ate-the-canary pleased - or maybe that metaphor is back to front - and, like, even if they hadn't pretty much come out and said that they were banging Andy would've taken like one look at Brandon and been like "Well _someone_ got laid."

"We thought you knew!" Brandon protests, but sleepily, with only the tiniest hint of smugness seeping through. Andy isn't getting laid for, like, another three days, minimum; he's maybe a little jealous.

"Why would you think that?" Andy asks, honestly confused.

"You made how many jokes about us being in love?" Brandon points out, eyes closed, stretching ever so slowly, like he's sore in all kinds of places. And that right there qualifies handily as stuff he does not need to know about their sex life.

"Oh, right," Andy says though, because: okay, fair point. "If he has, like, super speed on the ice tomorrow or whatever it's your fault though." He doesn’t think Saader would give up any sort of competitive advantage, but sex makes people stupid sometimes. There’s, like, wars and lawsuits and all kinds of shit proving that.

"Probably don't need to worry about that," Brandon drawls, looking smugger.

Andy just throws a pillow at him and goes off to harass Smitty instead.


End file.
